“About you, mon enfant?”

“Yes, about me—­that I was to become a nun.”

“Ah!” said Soeur Lucie, with the air of being suddenly enlightened, “yes—­yes, I suppose so, since she said it.  Now I must go, and do you go to sleep.”

“No, no,” cried Madelon, raising herself in the bed and stretching out both arms after Soeur Lucie’s retreating figure.  “Ah, Soeur Lucie, don’t leave me.  I can’t be a nun; don’t let them make me a nun!”

There was something so pitiful and beseeching in her accent, something so frail-looking in the little, white, imploring hands, that Soeur Lucie’s heart was touched.  She came back again.

“Ecoute, Madelon,” she said, “you will be ill again to-morrow if you talk so much; lie down now, and tell me what it is you want.  No one is going to make you a nun now, you know.”

“No, not now, but by-and-by.  Is it true that Aunt Therese said I was to be made one?”

“Yes, that is true enough, I believe; but there is nothing to be unhappy about in that,” answered Soeur Lucie, who naturally looked at things from a different point of view than Madelon’s.  “There are many girls who would be glad of such a chance; for you see, mon enfant, it is only because nothing could be refused to our late sainted Superior, that it has been arranged at all.”

“Soeur Ursule said I should be a burthen,” answered Madelon.  “I don’t want to be a burthen; I only want to go away.  Ah! why do you keep me?  I am miserable here; I always have been, and I always shall be—­always.”

“But that is foolish,” replied Soeur Lucie, “for you will be very happy—­far happier than you could ever be out in the world, ma petite; it is full of snares, and temptations, and wickedness, that never can come near us here.  Look at me; I was no older than you when I first came here, and never has girl been happier, I believe.  No, no, Madelon,” she went on, with a good-natured wish to make things pleasant, “you will stay with us, and be our child, and we will take care of you.”

“I don’t want you to take care of me!” cries Madelon, the burning tears starting painfully to her eyes.  “I hate convents, and I hate nuns, and it is wicked and cruel to keep me here!”

“Am I cruel and wicked?  Do you hate me?” said Soeur Lucie, rather aggrieved in her turn.

“No, no,” cried Madelon, with compunction, and throwing her arms round Soeur Lucie’s neck; “you are very kind, Soeur Lucie, and you won’t let them make me a nun, will you?  You will tell them all that I should be miserable—­ah!  I should die, I know I should!”

“Well, well, we will not talk about it any more to-night.  As for me, I have nothing to do with it—­nothing; but I cannot have you make yourself ill with chattering; so now let me put your pillow straight, and then you must go to sleep as fast as you can.”