little to bid it, the
neighbouring church of the St. Germain des Pres, where she had so long
worshipped, and her little _coterie_ of intimate friends, farewell. Yet
she set forth, taking with her Henriette, the hard-featured, old,
Breton maid, and _Monsieur Pouf_, the gray, Persian cat,--he protesting
plaintively from within a large Manilla basket,--and thus accompanied,
made pilgrimage to Brockhurst. And when Katherine, all the lost joys of
her girlhood assailing her at sight of her lifelong friend, had broken
down for once, and, laying her beautiful head on the elder woman's
shoulder, had sobbed out a question as to when this visit must end,
Marie de Mirancourt had answered--

"That, most dear one, is precisely as you shall see fit to decide. It
need not end till I myself end, if you so please."

And when Katherine, greatly comforted yet fearing to be over-greedy of
comfort, had reasoned with her, reminding her of the difference of
climate, the different habits of living in that gay, little Paris home
and this great English country house; reminding her, further, of her so
often and fondly expressed desire to retire from the world while yet in
the complete possession of her powers and prepare for the inevitable
close within the calm and sacred precincts of the convent--the other
replied almost gaily--

"Ah, my child! I have still a naughty little spirit of experiment in me
which defiles the barbarities of your climate. While as to the convent,
it has beckoned so long--let it beckon still! It called first when my
_fiance_ died,--God rest his soul,--worn out by the hardships he
endured in the war of La Vendee and I put from me forever all thought
of marriage. But then my mother, an emigrant here in London, claimed
all my care. It called me again when she departed, dear saintly being.
But then there were my brother's sons--orphaned by the guillotine--to
place. And when I had established them honourably, our beloved Lucia
turned to me, with her many enchantments and exquisite tragedy of the
heart. And, now, in my old age I come to you--whom I receive from her
as a welcome legacy--to remain just so long as I am not a burden to
you. Second childhood and first should understand one another. We will
play delightful games together, the dear baby and I. So let the convent
beckon. For the convent is perhaps, after all, but an impatient
grasping at the rest of paradise, before that rest is fairly earned. I
have a good hope that