Amidst the springing flowers, the twitter of pairing birds, and the bursting of green leaves through the brown, downy husks, in the bounteous April weather, Madelon began to recover rapidly.  She was nursed with kindness and care, if not exactly with tenderness, by Soeur Lucie; but tenderness our little black sheep had long since learnt not to expect in the convent, and she hardly missed it now.  It was in the first days of her convalescence that she heard of the death of her aunt Therese, through some chance remark of one of the Sisters who came into her cell.  Had it not been for this, they would have kept it from her longer; but the news scarcely affected her at all.  Her aunt had shown her no affection in these last two years that they had lived under the same roof, and, on the few occasions on which Madelon had come in contact with her, the pale, cold face, and severe manner of the nun had inspired her niece with a dread, which only lacked opportunity to become a more active dislike.  She heard the news then with apathy, and was still too languid and weak to think of the loss in reference to herself, or to realise that, so far as she knew, she had now no relation in the world.  Nor did such realization come at once, even when she grew stronger; her aunt had counted for so little in her present mode of life, that it did not occur to her that her death might bring any possible change into it; indeed, as we have said, she had ceased to look for any immediate change.  Monsieur Horace had brought her to the convent, and Soeur Lucie took care of her there, and so she supposed matters would go on for the present.

If, however, the news of her aunt’s death affected her but little, it was quite otherwise with another conversation that she overheard a few days later, and which, indeed, was not meant for her ears either.  She had awakened one evening from a long, sound sleep, and was lying quietly in the dusk, dreamily wondering how soon she should make up her mind to arouse herself and take the medicine that she knew awaited her as soon as she should declare herself awake, when Soeur Ursule entered the room.  She had come with some message to Soeur Lucie, and when it was delivered, stood chatting a few minutes by the window where Soeur Lucie sat knitting.  She was a gaunt, brisk, elderly woman, who had been governess in a large school, before an opportune legacy had enabled her to fulfil her dearest wish and enter the convent, where, with fresh zeal and energy, she resumed the duties most congenial to her, as teacher and superintendent of the school.  Thoroughly devout and conscientious, and with a kind heart au fond, she nevertheless brought with her into her new sphere all the habits and modes of thought acquired during a long struggle with a very hard, secular world—­a practical turn of mind, verging on hardness, a dictatorial manner, a certain opinion-activeness, which still showed itself now and then in oddest contrast with the habitual submission demanded of a nun.