The train rushed onward. Day was broadening. The horizon was growing red in the east.

The party travelled on in silence for some ten or fifteen minutes, and then, Sister Josephine growing impatient to have her curiosity satisfied, made a few leading remarks.

"And so you were coming to us unannounced by any previous communication to our holy mother? And coming alone on the night train! You possess a n.o.ble courage, my child, but the adventure was hazardous to a young and lovely unmarried woman. The Virgin be praised we met you when we did!"

said the Sister, devoutly crossing herself.

"Amen, and amen, to that!" sighed Salome.

"Our holy mother will be overjoyed to see you. You are sure she does not expect you, my dear child?"

"No, Sister, she does not expect me, unless she has the gift of second sight. For I did not expect myself to return to St. Rosalie, to-day, or ever. When I took my place in this carriage at midnight, I did not know how far I should go, or where I should stop. I took a through ticket to Paris; but I did not know whether I should stop at Paris, or go on to Ma.r.s.eilles, or Rome, or St. Petersburg, or New York, or where!" moaned the fugitive.

"The holy saints protect us, my child! What wild thing is this you are saying?" exclaimed Sister Josephine, making the sign of the cross.

"No matter what I say now, good Sister, I will tell our holy mother all.

Is la Mere Genevieve now your lady superior?" softly inquired the fugitive.

"Yes, surely, my child. And she will be transported to behold her best beloved pupil again. You are sure that she will be taken by surprise?"

said the good, simple minded Sister, still innocently angling for a farther explanation.

"Yes, I feel sure that I shall surprise our good mother if I do _not_ delight her; for, as I told you before, I gave her no intimation of any intended visit. I repeat that when I set foot upon this train, I had no fixed plan in my mind. I did not know where I should go.

My meeting with you is providential. It decides me, nay, rather let me say, it directs me to seek rest and peace and safety there where my happy childhood and early youth were pa.s.sed, and where I once desired to spend my whole life in the service of Heaven. I, too, fervently praise the Virgin for this blessed meeting. I too thank the Mother of Sorrows for being near me in my sorrow and in my madness!" murmured Salome, in a low, earnest tone.

"Holy saints, my child! What can have happened to you to inspire such words as these?" exclaimed Sister Josephine in alarm.

"Never mind what, good Sister. You shall hear all in time. I am forced by fate to keep a promise that I made and might have broken. That is all."

"Ah, my dear child, I comprehend sorrow and despair in your words; but I do not comprehend your words!" sighed Sister Josephine.

"When I left your convent three years ago, I promised did I not, that after I should have become of age and be mistress of my fate, I would return, dedicate my life to the service of Heaven, and spend the remainder of it here? Did I not?" inquired Salome, in a low voice.

"You did, you did, my child. And for a long time we looked for you in vain. And when you did not come, or even write to us, we thought the world had won you, and made you forget your promise," sighed Sister Josephine crossing herself.

The two youthful Sisters followed her example, sighed and crossed themselves.

There was a grave pause of a few minutes, and then the voice of Salome was heard in solemn tones:

"The world won me. The world broke me and flung me back upon the convent, and forced me to remember and keep my promise. I return now to dedicate myself to the service of Heaven, at the altar of your convent, if indeed Heaven will take a heart that earth has crushed!"

She sighed.

"It is the world-crushed, bleeding heart that is the sweetest offering to all-healing, all-merciful Heaven," said Sister Josephine, tenderly lifting the hand of Salome and pressing it to her bosom.

Again a solemn silence fell upon the little party.

Salome was the first to break it.

"It seems to me we have come a very long way, since we left the last station. Are we near ours?" she inquired, in a voice sinking with fatigue.

"We will be at our station in a very few minutes. A comfortable close carriage will meet us there to convey us to St. Rosalie," said Sister Josephine, soothingly.

Salome sank wearily back in her corner seat. The short-lived energy that enabled her to talk was dying out. Her hands and feet were cold as ice.

Her head was hot as fire. Her frame was faint almost to swooning.

The train sped on. The party in the carriage fell into silence that lasted until the train "slowed," and stopped at a little way station.

"Here we are!" said Sister Josephine, rising to leave the carriage with her companions.

The guard opened the door.

Sister Josephine led the way out, and then took the hand of the half fainting Salome, to help her on.

The two other sisters followed. A close carriage, with an aged coachman on the box, awaited them. The old man did not leave his seat; but Sister Josephine opened the door and helped Salome into the carriage, and placed her comfortably on the cushions in a corner of the back seat, and then sat down beside her.

The two younger sisters followed and placed themselves on the front seat.

The aged coachman, who knew his duty, did not wait for orders, but turned immediately away from the station, and drove off just as the train started again on its way to Paris.

They entered a country road running through a wood--a pleasant ride, if Salome could have enjoyed it--but she leaned back on her cushions, with closed eyes, fever-flushed cheeks, and fainting frame. The sisters, seeing her condition, refrained from disturbing her by any conversation.

They rode on in perfect silence for about a mile, when they came to a high stone wall, which ran along on the left-hand side of their road, while the thick wood continued on their right-hand side. The road here ran between the wood and the wall of the convent grounds.

CHAPTER XX.

SALOME'S PROTECTRESS.

"We have arrived. Welcome home, my dear child," said Sister Josephine, as the carriage drew up before the strong and solid, iron-bound, oaken gates of the convent.

The aged coachman blew a shrill summons upon a little silver whistle that he carried in his pocket for the purpose.

The gates were thrown wide open and the carriage rolled into an extensive court-yard, enclosed in a high stone wall, and having in its centre the ma.s.sive building of the convent proper, with its chapel and offices.

A straight, broad, hard, rolled, gravelled carriage-way led from the gates through the court-yard and up to the main entrance of the building.

This road was bordered on each side by gra.s.s-plots, now sear in the late October frosts, and flower-beds, from which the flowers had been removed to their winter quarters in the conservatories. Groups of shade trees, statues of saints, and fountains of crystal-clear water adorned the grounds at regular intervals. In the rear of the convent building was a thicket of trees reaching quite down to the back wall.

The carriage rolled along the gravelled road, crossing the court-yard, and drew up before the door of the convent.

Sister Josephine got out and helped Salome to alight.

The sun was just rising in cloudless glory.

"See, my child," said Sister Josephine, cheerily pointing to the eastern horizon; "see, a happy omen; the sun himself arises and smiles on your re-entrance into St. Rosalie."

Salome smiled faintly, and leaned heavily upon the arm of her companion as they went slowly up the steps, pa.s.sed through the front doors, and found themselves in a little square entrance hall, surrounded on three sides by a bronze grating, and having immediately before them a grated door, with a little wicket near the centre.