A great fete day was coming, and an atmosphere of preparation and
mild excitement pervaded the brown walls of the convent like a
delicate aroma. The old Cathedral around the corner had stood a
hundred years, and all the city was rising to do honour to its
age and time-softened beauty. There would be a service, oh, but
such a one! with two Cardinals, and Archbishops and Bishops, and
all the accompanying glitter of soldiers and orchestras. The
little sisters of the Convent du Sacre Coeur clasped their hands
in anticipation of the holy joy. Sister Josepha curled her lip,
she was so tired of churchly pleasures.

The day came, a gold and blue spring day, when the air hung heavy
with the scent of roses and magnolias, and the sunbeams fairly
laughed as they kissed the houses. The old Cathedral stood gray
and solemn, and the flowers in Jackson Square smiled cheery
birthday greetings across the way. The crowd around the door
surged and pressed and pushed in its eagerness to get within.
Ribbons stretched across the banquette were of no avail to
repress it, and important ushers with cardinal colours could do
little more.

The Sacred Heart sisters filed slowly in at the side door,
creating a momentary flutter as they paced reverently to their
seats, guarding the blue-bonneted orphans. Sister Josepha,
determined to see as much of the world as she could, kept her big
black eyes opened wide, as the church rapidly filled with the
fashionably dressed, perfumed, rustling, and self-conscious
throng.