"Ah, not to-night, Soeur Lucie, please," she said, in a
faltering voice; "I--I am tired--I have been in the garden all
the afternoon;--that is, I am not tired; but I don't want to
come down to-night."

"Well, I will let you off this one evening," said Soeur Lucie,
good-naturedly; "though you used to be fond of coming to
vespers, and certainly I don't think you can be very tired
with sitting in the garden. However, we must begin work
regularly to-morrow; so you had better go to bed at once, and
get well rested. Good night, _ma petite_."

"Good-night," said Madelon; and then, as Soeur Lucie turned to
leave the room, she felt a sudden pang of self-reproach. She
was deceiving the good-humoured, simple little sister, who had
been kind to her after her own fashion; and she was going
away, and would never see her any more. She thought she would
like to have one more kind word from her, as she could not
wish her good-bye.

"Do you love me, Soeur Lucie?" she said, flinging her arms
round her neck.

"To be sure, _mon enfant_," answers Soeur Lucie, with some
astonishment; then, hastening to add the qualifying clause by
which so many worthy people take care to proclaim that their
love is human, and not divine, "that is, when you are good,
you know, and do what you are told."