and happiness of society depend.  The parents of these poor children were eager to trust them to her care, and they strenuously endeavoured to promote what they perceived to be entirely to their advantage.  They promised to take their daughters to school punctually every morning—­a promise which was likely to be kept, as a good breakfast was to be ready at a certain hour, and not to wait for anybody.  The parents looked forward with pleasure, also, to the idea of calling for their little girls at the end of their day’s labour, and of taking them home to their family supper.  During the intermediate hours the children were constantly to be employed, or in exercise.  It was difficult to provide suitable employments for their early age; but even the youngest of those admitted could be taught to wind balls of cotton, thread, and silk for haberdashers; or they could shell peas and beans, &c., for a neighbouring traiteur; or they could weed in a garden.  The next in age could learn knitting and plain work, reading, writing, and arithmetic.  As the girls should grow up, they were to be made useful in the care of the house.  Sister Frances said she could teach them to wash and iron, and that she would make them as skilful in cookery as she was herself.  This last was doubtless a rash promise; for in most of the mysteries of the culinary art, especially in the medical branches of it, in making savoury messes palatable to the sick, few could hope to equal the neat-handed Sister Frances.  She had a variety of other accomplishments; but her humility and good sense forbade her upon the present occasion to mention these.  She said nothing of embroidery, or of painting, or of cutting out paper, or of carving in ivory, though in all these she excelled:  her cuttings-out in paper were exquisite as the finest lace; her embroidered housewives, and her painted boxes, and her fan-mounts, and her curiously-wrought ivory toys, had obtained for her the highest reputation in the convent amongst the best judges in the world.  Those only who have philosophically studied and thoroughly understand the nature of fame and vanity can justly appreciate the self-denial or magnanimity of Sister Frances, in forbearing to enumerate or boast of these things.  She alluded to them but once, and in the slightest and most humble manner.

“These little creatures are too young for us to think of teaching them anything but plain work at present; but if hereafter any of them should show a superior genius we can cultivate it properly.  Heaven has been pleased to endow me with the means—­at least, our convent says so.”

The actions of Sister Frances showed as much moderation as her words; for though she was strongly tempted to adorn her new dwelling with those specimens of her skill which had long been the glory of her apartment in the convent, yet she resisted the impulse, and contented herself with hanging over the chimney-piece of her schoolroom a Madonna of her own painting.