"Heloise," replied Mere Esther, "this is idle fear. We have waited for you, knowing that one day you would come, and you will be most welcome, dowered or not!"

"You are ever kind, Mere Esther, but how could you know I should come to you?" asked Heloise with a look of inquiry.

"Alas, Heloise, we know more of the world and its doings than is well for us. Our monastery is like the ear of Dionysius: not a whisper in the city escapes it. Oh, darling, we knew you had failed in your one great desire upon earth, and that you would seek consolation where it is only to be found, in the arms of your Lord."

"It is true, mother; I had but one desire upon earth, and it is crushed; one little bird that nestled a while in my bosom, and it has flown away. The event of to-day has stricken me and Amelie alike, and we come together to wear out the stones of your pavement praying for the hapless brother of Amelie."

"And the object of Heloise's faithful love!" replied the nun with tender sympathy. "Oh! how could Le Gardeur de Repentigny refuse a heart like yours, Heloise, for the sake of that wild daughter of levity, Angelique des Meloises?

"But come, I will conduct you to the venerable Lady Superior, who is in the garden conversing with Grand'mere St. Pierre, and your old friend and mistress, Mere Ste. Helene."

The news of the tragedy in the market-place had been early carried to the Convent by the ubiquitous Bonhomme Michael, who was out that day on one of his multifarious errands in the service of the community.

The news had passed quickly through the Convent, agitating the usually quiet nuns, and causing the wildest commotion among the classes of girls, who were assembled at their morning lessons in the great schoolroom. The windows were clustered with young, comely heads, looking out in every direction, while nuns in alarm streamed from the long passages to the lawn, where sat the venerable Superior, Mere Migeon de la Nativite, under a broad ash-tree, sacred to the Convent by the memories that clustered around it. The Ste. Therese of Canada, Mere Marie de l'Incarnation, for lack of a better roof, in the first days of her mission, used to gather around her under that tree the wild Hurons as well as the young children of the colonists, to give them their first lessons in religion and letters.

Mere Esther held up her finger warningly to the nuns not to speak, as she passed onward through the long corridors, dim with narrow lights and guarded by images of saints, until she came into an open square flagged with stones. In the walls of this court a door opened upon the garden into which a few steps downwards conducted them.

The garden of the monastery was spacious and kept with great care.

The walks meandered around beds of flowers, and under the boughs of apple-trees, and by espaliers of ancient pears and plums.

The fruit had long been gathered in, and only a few yellow leaves hung upon the autumnal trees, but the grass was still green on the lawn where stood the great ash-tree of Mere Marie de l'Incarnation. The last hardy flowers of autumn lingered in this sheltered spot.

In these secluded alleys the quiet recluses usually walked and meditated in peace, for here man's disturbing voice was never heard.

But to-day a cluster of agitated nuns gathered around the great ash-tree, and here and there stood groups of black and white veils; some were talking, while others knelt silently before the guardian of the house, the image of St. Joseph, which overlooked this spot, considered particularly sacred to prayer and meditation.

The sight of Mere Esther, followed by the well-known figures of Amelie and Heloise, caused every head to turn with a look of recognition; but the nuns were too well disciplined to express either surprise or curiosity in the presence of Mere Migeon, however much they felt of both. They stood apart at a sign from the Lady Superior, leaving her with a nun attendant on each side to receive Mere Esther and her two companions.

Mere Migeon de la Nativite was old in years, but fresh in looks and alert in spirit. Her features were set in that peculiar expression of drooping eyelids and placid lips which belongs to the Convent, but she could look up and flash out on occasion with an air of command derived from high birth and a long exercise of authority as Superior of the Ursulines, to which office the community had elected her as many trienniums as their rules permitted.

Mere Migeon had been nearly half a century a nun, and felt as much pride as humility in the reflection. She liked power, which, however, she exercised wholly for the benefit of her subjects in the Convent, and wore her veil with as much dignity as the Queen her crown. But, if not exempt from some traces of human infirmity, she made amends by devoting herself night and day to the spiritual and temporal welfare of the community, who submitted to her government with extreme deference and unquestioning obedience.

Mere Migeon had directed the two sorrowing ladies to be brought into the garden, where she would receive them under the old tree of Mere Marie de l'Incarnation.

She rose with affectionate eagerness as they entered, and embraced them one after the other, kissing them on the cheek; "her little prodigals returning to the house of their father and mother, after feeding on the husks of vanity in the gay world which was never made for them."

"We will kill the fatted calf in honor of your return, Amelie. Will we not, Mere Esther?" said the Lady Superior, addressing Amelie rather than Heloise.

"Not for me, reverend Mere; you shall kill no fatted calf, real or symbolical, for me!" exclaimed Amelie. "I come only to hide myself in your cloister, to submit myself to your most austere discipline. I have given up all. Oh, my Mere, I have given up all! None but God can know what I have given up forever!"

"You were to have married the son of the Bourgeois, were you not, Amelie?" asked the Superior, who, as the aunt of Varin, and by family ties connected with certain leading spirits of the Grand Company, had no liking for the Bourgeois Philibert; her feelings, too, had been wrought upon by a recital of the sermon preached in the marketplace that morning.

"Oh, speak not of it, good Mere! I was betrothed to Pierre Philibert, and how am I requiting his love? I should have been his wife, but for this dreadful deed of my brother. The Convent is all that is left to me now."

"Your aunt called herself the humble handmaid of Mary, and the lamp of Repentigny will burn all the brighter trimmed by a daughter of her noble house," answered Mere Migeon.

"By two daughters, good Mere! Heloise is equally a daughter of our house," replied Amelie, with a touch of feeling.

Mere Esther whispered a few words in the ear of the Superior, advising her to concede every request of Amelie and Heloise, and returned to the wicket to answer some other hasty call from the troubled city.

Messengers despatched by Bonhomme Michael followed one another at short intervals, bringing to the Convent exact details of all that occurred in the streets, with the welcome tidings at last that the threatened outbreak had been averted by the prompt interposition of the Governor and troops. Comparative quietness again reigned in every quarter of the city.

Le Gardeur de Repentigny had voluntarily surrendered himself to the guard and given up his sword, being overwhelmed with remorse for his act. He had been placed, not in irons as he had demanded, but as a prisoner in the strong ward of the Castle of St. Louis.

"I pray you, reverend Mere Superior," said Amelie, "permit us now to go into the Chapel of Saints to lay our hearts, as did our kinswoman, Madelaine de Repentigny, at the feet of our Lady of Grand Pouvoir."

"Go, my children, and our prayers shall go with you," replied the Superior; "the lamp of Repentigny will burn brighter than ever to-night to welcome you."

The Chapel of Saints was held in reverence as the most sacred place in the monastery. It contained the shrines and relics of many saints and martyrs. The devout nuns lavished upon it their choicest works of embroidery, painting, and gilding, in the arts of which they were eminent. The old Sacristaine was kneeling before the altar as Amelie and Heloise entered the Chapel.

An image of the Virgin occupied a niche in the Chapel wall, and before it burned the silver lamp of Repentigny which had been hung there two generations before, in memory of the miraculous call of Madelaine de Repentigny and her victory over the world.

The high-bred and beautiful Madelaine had been the delight and pride of Ville Marie. Stricken with grief by the death of a young officer to whom she was affianced, she retired to Quebec, and knelt daily at the feet of our Lady of Pouvoir, beseeching her for a sign if it was her will that she should become an Ursuline.

The sign was given, and Madelaine de Repentigny at once exchanged her gay robes for the coarse black gown and veil, and hung up this votive lamp before the Madonna as a perpetual memorial of her miraculous call.

Seven generations of men have passed away since then. The house of Repentigny has disappeared from their native land. Their name and fame lie buried in oblivion, except in that little Chapel of the Saints where their lamp still burns brightly as ever. The pious nuns of St. Ursule, as the last custodians of the traditions of New France, preserve that sole memorial of the glories and misfortunes of the noble house,--the lamp of Repentigny.

Amelie and Heloise remained long in the Chapel of Saints, kneeling upon the hard floor as they prayed with tears and sobs for the soul of the Bourgeois and for God's pity and forgiveness upon Le Gardeur.

To Amelie's woes was added the terrible consciousness that, by this deed of her brother, Pierre Philibert was torn from her forever. She pictured to herself his grief, his love, his despair, perhaps his vengeance; and to add to all, she, his betrothed bride, had forsaken him and fled like a guilty thing, without waiting to see whether he condemned her.

An hour ago Amelie had been the envy and delight of her gay bridesmaids.

Her heart had overflowed like a fountain of wine, intoxicating all about her with joy at the hope of the speedy coming of her bridegroom.

Suddenly the idols of her life had been shattered as by a thunderbolt, and lay in fragments around her feet.

The thought came upon her like the rush of angry wings. She knew that all was over between her and Pierre. The cloister and the veil were all that were left to Amelie de Repentigny.

"Heloise, dearest sister!" exclaimed she, "my conscience tells me I have done right, but my heart accuses me of wrong to Pierre, of falseness to my plighted vows in forsaking him; and yet, not for heaven itself would I have forsaken Pierre. Would that I were dead! Oh, what have I done, Heloise, to deserve such a chastisement as this from God?"

Amelie threw her arms around the neck of Heloise, and leaning her head on her bosom, wept long and without restraint, for none saw them save God.

"Listen!" said Heloise, as the swelling strain of the organ floated up from the convent chapel. The soft voices of the nuns mingled in plaintive harmony as they sang the hymn of the Virgin:

"Pia Mater! Fons amoris!

Me sentire vim doloris Fac, ut tecum lugeam!"

Again came the soft pleading notes of the sacred hymn:

"Quando corpus morietur, Fac ut animae donetur Paradisi gloria! Amen!"

The harmony filled the ears of Amelie and Heloise, like the lap of the waves of eternity upon the world's shore. It died away, and they continued praying before Our Lady of Grand Pouvoir.

The silence was suddenly broken. Hasty steps traversed the little chapel. A rush of garments caused Amelie and Heloise to turn around, and in an instant they were both clasped in the passionate embrace of the Lady de Tilly, who had arrived at the Convent.