"Camille, ma chere," said Mother, "I am extremely displeased with
you. Why did you not wish to go with Monsieur and Madame Lafaye
yesterday?"

The girl uncrossed her hands from her bosom, and spread them out
in a deprecating gesture.

"Mais, ma mere, I was afraid."

Mother's face grew stern. "No foolishness now," she exclaimed.

"It is not foolishness, ma mere; I could not help it, but that
man looked at me so funny, I felt all cold chills down my back.
Oh, dear Mother, I love the convent and the sisters so, I just
want to stay and be a sister too, may I?"

And thus it was that Camille took the white veil at sixteen
years. Now that the period of novitiate was over, it was just
beginning to dawn upon her that she had made a mistake.

"Maybe it would have been better had I gone with the
funny-looking lady and gentleman," she mused bitterly one night.
"Oh, Seigneur, I 'm so tired and impatient; it's so dull here,
and, dear God, I'm so young."

There was no help for it. One must arise in the morning, and
help in the refectory with the stupid Sister Francesca, and go
about one's duties with a prayerful mien, and not even let a sigh
escape when one's head ached with the eternal telling of beads.