large black cross marks its place. The modern nuns are in the garden
nearly the whole morning long, and by night the ghosts of the former
nuns haunt it; and in very bright moonlight I myself do a bit of
Madame de la Peltrie there, and teach little Indian boys, who dwindle
like those in the song, as the moon goes down. It is an enchanted
place, and I wish we had it in the back yard at Eriecreek, though I
don't think the neighbors would approve of the architecture. I have
adopted two nuns for my own: one is tall and slender and pallid, and
you can see at a glance that she broke the heart of a mortal lover,
and knew it, when she became the bride of heaven; and the other is
short and plain and plump, and looks as comfortable and commonplace
as life-after-dinner. When the world is bright I revel in the
statue-like sadness of the beautiful nun, who never laughs or plays
with the little girl pupils; but when the world is dark--as the best
of worlds will be at times for a minute or two--I take to the fat
nun, and go in for a clumsy romp with the children; and then I fancy
that I am wiser if not better than the fair slim Ursuline. But
whichever I am, for the time being, I am vexed with the other; yet
they always are together, as if they were counterparts. I think a
nice story might be written about them.

In Wolfe's siege of Quebec this Ursuline Garden of ours was
everywhere torn up by the falling bombs, and the sisters were driven
out into the world they had forsaken forever, as Fanny has been
reading in a little French account of the events, written at the
time, by a nun of the General Hospital. It was there the Ursulines
took what refuge there was; going from their cloistered school-rooms
and their innocent little ones to the wards of the hospital, filled
with the wounded and dying of either side, and echoing with their
dreadful groans. What a sad, evil, bewildering world they had a