told her beads mechanically, her fingers numb with the accustomed
exercise. The little organ creaked a dismal "O Salutaris," and she still knelt on the floor, her
white-bonneted head nodding suspiciously. The Mother Superior gave a sharp glance at the tired
figure; then, as a sudden lurch forward brought the little sister back to consciousness, Mother's
eyes relaxed into a genuine smile.
The bell tolled the end of vespers, and the sombre-robed nuns filed out of the chapel to go
about their evening duties. Little Sister Josepha's work was to attend to the household lamps, but
there must have been as much oil spilled upon the table to-night as was
put in the vessels. The small brown hands trembled so that most of the wicks were trimmed with
points at one corner which caused them to smoke that night.
"Oh, cher Seigneur," she sighed, giving an impatient polish to a refractory chimney, "it is
wicked and sinful, I know, but I am so tired. I can't be happy and sing any more. It doesn't seem
right for le bon Dieu to have me all cooped up here with nothing to see but stray visitors, and
always the same old work, teaching those mean little girls to sew, and washing and filling the
same old lamps. Pah!" And she polished the chimney with a sudden vigorous jerk which
They were rebellious prayers that the red mouth murmured that night, and a restless figure
that tossed on the hard dormitory bed. Sister Dominica
called from her couch to know if Sister Josepha were ill.
"No," was the somewhat short response; then a muttered, "Why can't they let me alone for a
minute? That pale-eyed Sister Dominica never sleeps; that's why she is so ugly."
About fifteen years before this night some one had brought to the orphan asylum connected
with this convent, du Sacré Coeur, a round, dimpled bit of three-year-old humanity,
who regarded the world from a pair of gravely twinkling black eyes, and only took a chubby
thumb out of a rosy mouth long enough to answer in monosyllabic French. It was a child without
an identity; there was but one name that any one seemed to know, and that, too, was
She grew up with the rest of the waifs; scraps of French and American civilization thrown
together to develop a seemingly inconsistent miniature world. Mademoiselle Camille was a queen among them, a
pretty little tyrant who ruled the children and dominated the more timid sisters in charge.
One day an awakening came. When she was fifteen, and almost fully ripened into a glorious
tropical beauty of the type that matures early, some visitors to the convent were fascinated by her
and asked the Mother Superior to give the girl into their keeping.
Camille fled like a frightened fawn into the yard, and was only unearthed with some
difficulty from behind a group of palms. Sulky and pouting, she was led into the parlour, picking
at her blue pinafore like a spoiled infant.
"The lady and gentleman wish you to go home with them, Camille," said the Mother
Superior, in the language of the convent. Her voice was kind and gentle apparently; but the child,
accustomed to its various inflections, detected a steely ring behind its softness, like the proverbial iron hand
in the velvet glove.
"You must understand, madame," continued Mother, in stilted English, "that we never force
children from us. We are ever glad to place them in comfortable -- how you say that?
-- quarters -- maisons -- homes -- bien! But we will not make them
go if they do not wish."
Camille stole a glance at her would be guardians, and decided instantly, impulsively, finally.
The woman suited her; but the man! It was doubtless intuition of the quick, vivacious sort which
belonged to her blood that served her. Untutored in worldly knowledge, she could not divine the
meaning of the pronounced leers and admiration of her physical charms which gleamed in the
man's face, but she knew it made her feel creepy, and stoutly refused to go.
Next day Camille was summoned from a task to the Mother Superior's parlour. The other
girls gazed with envy upon her as she dashed down the courtyard with impetuous movement.
Camille, they decided crossly, received too much notice. It was Camille this, Camille that; she
was pretty, it was to be expected. Even Father Ray lingered longer in his blessing when his hands
pressed her silky black hair.
As she entered the parlour, a strange chill swept over the girl. The room was not an
unaccustomed one, for she had swept it many times, but to-day the stiff black chairs, the dismal
crucifixes, the gleaming whiteness of the walls, even the cheap lithograph of the Madonna which
Camille had always regarded as a perfect specimen of art, seemed cold and mean.
"Camille, ma chere," said Mother, "I am extremely displeased with you.
Why did you not wish to go with Monsieur and Madame Lafayé yesterday?"
The girl uncrossed her hands from her bosom, and spread them out in a deprecating
"Mais, ma mère, I was afraid."
"Mother's face grew stern. "No foolishness now," she exclaimed.
"It is not foolishness, ma mère; 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.
A great fête 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 Sacré 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 cherry 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.
Her heart beat quickly. The rebellious thoughts that will arise in the most philosophical of us
surged in her small heavily gowned bosom. For her were the gray things, the neutral tinted skies,
the ugly garb, the coarse meats; for them the rainbow, the ethereal airiness of earthly joys, the
bonbons and glacés of the world. Sister Josepha did not know that the rainbow is elusive,
and its colours but the illumination of tears; she had never been told that earthly ethereality is
necessarily ephemeral, nor that bonbons and glacés, whether of the palate or of the soul,
nauseate and pall upon the taste. Dear God, forgive her, for she bent with
contrite tears over her worn rosary, and glanced no more at the worldly glitter of femininity.
The sunbeams streamed through the high windows in purple and crimson lights upon a
veritable fugue of colour. Within the seats, crush upon crush of spring millinery; within the aisles
erect lines of gold-braided, gold-buttoned military. Upon the altar, broad sweeps of golden robes,
great dashes of crimson skirts, mitres and gleaming crosses, the soft neutral hue of rich lace
vestments; the tender heads of childhood in picturesque attire; the proud, golden magnificence of
the domed altar with its weighting mass of lilies and wide-eyed roses, and the long candles that
sparkled their yellow star points above the reverent throng within the altar rails.
The soft baritone of the Cardinal intoned a single phrase in the suspended
silence. The censer took up the note in its delicate clink clink, as it swung to and fro in the hands
of a fair-haired child. Then the organ, pausing an instant in a deep, mellow, long-drawn note,
burst suddenly into a magnificent strain, and the choir sang forth, "Kyrie Eleïson, Christe
Eleïson." One voice, flute-like, piercing, sweet, rang high over the rest. Sister Josepha
heard and trembled, as she buried her face in her hands, and let her tears fall, like other beads,
through her rosary.
It was when the final word of the service had been intoned, the last peal of the exit march had
died away, that she looked up meekly, to encounter a pair of youthful brown eyes gazing
pityingly upon her. That was all she remembered for a moment, that the eyes were youthful and
handsome and tender. Later, she saw that they were placed in a rather beautiful boyish face,
surmounted by waves of brown hair, curling and soft, and that the head was set on a pair of
shoulders decked in military uniform. Then the brown eyes marched away with the rest of the
rear guard, and the white-bonneted sisters filed out the side door, through the narrow court, back
into the brown convent.
That night Sister Josepha tossed more than usual on her hard bed, and clasped her fingers
often in prayer to quell the wickedness in her heart. Turn where she would, pray as she might,
there was ever a pair of tender, pitying brown eyes, haunting her persistently. The squeaky organ
at vespers intoned the clank of military accoutrements to her ears, the white bonnets of the sisters
about her faded into mists of curling brown hair. Briefly, Sister Josepha was in love.
The days went on pretty much as before, save for the one little heart that beat rebelliously now and then, though it tried so hard to
be submissive. There was the morning work in the refectory, the stupid little girls to teach
sewing, and the insatiable lamps that were so greedy for oil. And always the tender, boyish
brown eyes, that looked so sorrowfully at the fragile, beautiful little sister, haunting, following,
Perchance, had Sister Josepha been in the world, the eyes would have been an incident. But
in this home of self-repression and retrospection, it was a life-story. The eyes had gone their way,
doubtless forgetting the little sister they pitied; but the little sister?
The days glided into weeks, the weeks into months. Thoughts of escape had come to Sister
Josepha, to flee into the world, to merge in the great city where recognition was impossible, and,
working her way like the rest of humanity, perchance encounter the eyes again.
It was all planned and ready. She would wait until some morning when the little band of
black-robed sisters wended their way to mass at the Cathedral. When it was time to file out the
side-door into the courtway, she would linger at prayers, then slip out another door, and unseen
glide up Chartres Street to Canal, and once there, mingle in the throng that filled the wide
thoroughfare. Beyond this first plan she could think no further. Penniless, garbed, and shaven
though she would be, other difficulties never presented themselves to her. She would rely on the
mercies of the world to help her escape from this torturing life of inertia. It seemed easy now that
the first step of decision had been taken.
The Saturday night before the final day had come, and she lay feverishly nervous in her narrow little bed, wondering with wide-eyed fear at the morrow. Pale-eyed Sister
Dominica and Sister Francesca were whispering together in the dark silence, and Sister Josepha's
ears pricked up as she heard her name.
"She is not well, poor child," said Francesca. "I fear the life is too confining."
"It is best for her," was the reply. "You know, sister, how hard it would be for her in the
world, with no name but Camille, no friends, and her beauty; and then--"
Sister Josepha heard no more, for her heart beating tumultously in her bosom drowned the
rest. Like the rush of the bitter salt tide over a drowning man clinging to a spar, came the
complete submerging of her hopes of another life. No name but Camille, that was true; no
nationality, for she
could never tell from whom or whence she came; no friends, and a beauty that not even an
ungainly bonnet and shaven head could hide. In a flash she realised the deception of the life she
would lead, and the cruel self-torture of wonder at her own identity. Already, as if in anticipation
of the world's questionings, she was asking herself, "Who am I? What am I?"
The next morning the sisters du Sacré Coeur filed into the Cathedral at High
Mass, and bent devout knees at the general confession. "Confiteor Deo omnipotenti," murmured
the priest; and tremblingly one little sister followed the words, "Je confesse à Dieu, tout
puissant--que j'ai beaucoup péché par pensées-- c'est ma
faute--c'est ma faute--c'est ma très grande faute."
The organ pealed forth as mass ended, the throng slowly filed out, and the sisters paced
through the courtway
back into the brown convent walls. One paused at the entrance, and gazed with swift longing
eyes in the direction of narrow, squalid Chartres Street, then, with a gulping sob, followed the
rest, and vanished behind the heavy door.