So, in this secluded world in the gray old chateau, with no companion but her aunt, with no occupation but her studies and her charities, with no thoughts but those of saints and religious exercises, Elizabeth lived until she was eleven years old.  Then a great grief befell her.  One morning, Mademoiselle de Rochemont did not leave her room at the regular hour.  As she never broke a rule she had made for herself and her household, this occasioned great wonder.  Her old maid servant waited half an hour—­went to her door, and took the liberty of listening to hear if she was up and moving about her room.  There was no sound.  Old Alice returned, looking quite agitated.  “Would Mademoiselle Elizabeth mind entering to see if all was well?  Mademoiselle her aunt might be in the chapel.”

Elizabeth went.  Her aunt was not in her room.  Then she must be in the chapel.  The child entered the sacred little place.  The morning sun was streaming in through the stained-glass windows above the altar—­a broad ray of mingled brilliant colors slanted to the stone floor and warmly touched a dark figure lying there.  It was Aunt Clotilde, who had sunk forward while kneeling at prayer and had died in the night.

That was what the doctors said when they were sent for.  She had been dead some hours—­she had died of disease of the heart, and apparently without any pain or knowledge of the change coming to her.  Her face was serene and beautiful, and the rigid look had melted away.  Someone said she looked like little Mademoiselle Elizabeth; and her old servant Alice wept very much, and said, “Yes—­yes—­it was so when she was young, before her unhappiness came.  She had the same beautiful little face, but she was more gay, more of the world.  Yes, they were much alike then.”

Less than two months from that time Elizabeth was living in the home of her Uncle Bertrand, in New York.  He had come to Normandy for her himself, and taken her back with him across the Atlantic.  She was richer than ever now, as a great deal of her Aunt Clotilde’s money had been left to her, and Uncle Bertrand was her guardian.  He was a handsome, elegant, clever man, who, having lived long in America and being fond of American life, did not appear very much like a Frenchman—­at least he did not appear so to Elizabeth, who had only seen the cure and the doctor of the village.  Secretly he was very much embarrassed at the prospect of taking care of a little girl, but family pride, and the fact that such a very little girl, who was also such a very great heiress, must be taken care of sustained him.  But when he first saw Elizabeth he could not restrain an exclamation of consternation.

[Illustration:  It was Aunt Clotilde, who had sunk forward while kneeling at prayer.]

She entered the room, when she was sent for, clad in a strange little nun-like robe of black serge, made as like her-dead aunt’s as possible.  At her small waist were the rosary and crucifix, and in her hand she held a missal she had forgotten in her agitation to lay down—­