and listening, and
with some wonder she used to hear discussions about the dresses for the
"Premiere Communion," remarks about the various services, or laments
over the confession papers. The girls went to confession once a month,
and there was always a day in which they had to prepare and write out
their misdemeanors. One day, a little, thin, delicate child from the
south of France came up to Erica with her confession in her hand.

"Dear, good Erica," she said, wearily, "have the kindness to read this
and to correct my mistakes."

Erica took the little thing on her knee, and began to read the paper. It
was curiously spelled. Before very long she came to the sentence, "J'ai
trop mange."

"Why, Ninette," exclaimed Erica, "you hardly eat enough to feed a
sparrow; it is nonsense to put that."

"Ah, but it was a fast day," signed Ninette. "And I felt hungry, and did
really eat more than I need have."

Erica felt half angry and contemptuous, half amused, and could only hope
that the priest would see the pale, thin face of the little penitent,
and realize the ludicrousness of the confession.

Another time all the girls had been to some special service; on their
return, she asked what it had been about.

"Oh," remarked a bright-faced girl, "it was about the seven joys--or the
seven sorrows--of Mary."

"Do you mean to say you don't know whether it was very solemn or very
joyful?" asked Erica, astonished and amused.

"I am really not sure," said the girl, with the most placid
good-tempered indifference.

On the whole, it was scarcely to be wondered at that Erica was not
favorably impressed with Roman Catholicism.

She was a great favorite with all the girls; but, though she was very
patient and persevering, she did not succeed in making any of them
fluent English speakers, and learned their language far better than they
learned hers. Her three special friends were not among the pupils, but
among the teachers. Dear old Mme. Lemercier, with her good-humored black
eyes, her kind, demonstrative ways, and her delightful stories about
the time of the war and the siege, was a friend worth having. So was her
husband, M. Lemercier the journalist. He was a little dried-up man, with
a fierce black mustache; he was sarcastic and witty, and he would
talk politics by the hour together to any one who would listen to him,
especially if they would now and then ask a pertinent and intelligent
question which gave him scope for an ora