“Oh, Sister Angela! don’t you see?”

She lifted the corners of her apron where the dead pets lay, and her chin trembled.

“Another rabbit gone!  How many have you left?”

“None.  And this is my last white dove; the other two have coloured rings around their necks.”

“I am very sorry for you, dear, you seem so fond of them.  But, my child, why did you come here?”

“My Bunnie was not dead when I started, and I thought if I could only get to St. Francis and show it to him he would cure it, and send life back to my pigeon too.  You know, Sister, that Father told us last week at instruction we must find out all about St. Francis, and next day Armantine was Refectory Reader, and she read us about St. Francis preaching to the birds at Bevagno, and how they opened their beaks and listened, and even let him touch them, and never stirred till he blessed them and made the sign of the Cross, and then they all flew away.  She read all about the doves at the convent of Ravacciano, and the nest of larks, and the bad, greedy little lark that St. Francis ordered to die, and said nothing should eat it, and sure enough, even the hungry cats ran away from it.  Don’t you remember that when St. Francis went walking about the fields, the rabbits jumped into his bosom, because he loved them so very much?  You see, I thought it was really all true, and that St. Francis could save mine too, and I carried ‘Bunnie’ and ‘Snowball’ to him—­out yonder, and laid them on his feet, and prayed and prayed ever so long, and while I was praying my ‘Bunnie’ died right there.  Then I knew he could do no good, and I thought I would try our Blessed Lady over here, because the Nuns’ Chapel seems holier than ours,—­but it is no use.  I will never pray to her again, nor to St. Francis either.”

“Hush! you wicked child!”

Regina rose slowly from the pavement, gathered up her apron very tenderly, and, looking steadily into the sweet serene face of the nun, said with much emphasis: 

“What have I done?  Sister Angela, I am not wicked.”

“Yes, dear, you are.  We are all born full of sin, and desperately wicked; but if you will only pray and try to be good, I have no doubt St. Francis will send you some rabbits and doves so lovely, that they will comfort you for those you have lost.”

“I know just as well as you do that he has no idea of doing anything of the kind, and you need not tell me pretty tales that you don’t believe yourself.  Sister, it is all humbug; ‘Bunnie’ is dead, and I sha’n’t waste another prayer on St. Francis!  If ever I get another rabbit, it will be when I buy one, as I mean to do just as soon as I move to some nice place where owls and hawks never come.”

Here the clang of a bell startled Sister Angela, who seized the child’s hand.

“Five strokes!—­that is my bell.  Come, Regina, we have been hunting you for some time, and Mother will be out of patience.”