the conversion of a race that has perished, and whose relics they had come, fresh from their reading of Parkman, with some vague and patronizing intention to revere.  An elderly sister with a pale, kind face led them through a ward of the hospital into the chapel, which they found in the expected taste, and exquisitely neat and cool, but lacking the martyr’s skull.  They asked if it were not to be seen.  “Ah, yes, poor Pere Brebeuf!” sighed the gentle sister, with the tone and manner of having lost him yesterday; “we had it down only last week, showing it to some Jesuit fathers; but it’s in the convent now, and isn’t to be seen.”  And there mingled apparently in her regret for Pere Brebeuf a confusing sense of his actual state as a portable piece of furniture.  She would not let them praise the chapel.  It was very clean, yes, but there was nothing to see in it.  She deprecated their compliments with many shrugs, but she was pleased; for when we renounce the pomps and vanities of this world, we are pretty sure to find them in some other,—­if we are women.  She, good and pure soul, whose whole life was given to self-denying toil, had yet something angelically coquettish in her manner, a spiritual-worldliness which was the clarified likeness of this-worldliness.  O, had they seen the Hotel Dieu at Montreal?  Then (with a vivacious wave of the hands) they would not care to look at this, which by comparison was nothing.  Yet she invited them to go through the wards if they would, and was clearly proud to have them see the wonderful cleanness and comfort of the place.  There were not many patients, but here and there a wan or fevered face looked at them from its pillow, or a weak form drooped beside a bed, or a group of convalescents softly talked together.  They came presently to the last hall, at the end of which sat another nun, beside a window that gave a view of the busy port, and beyond it the landscape of village-lit plain and forest-darkened height.  On a table at her elbow stood a rose-tree, on which hung two only pale tea-roses, so fair, so perfect, that Isabel cried out in wonder and praise.  Ere she could prevent it, the nun, to whom there had been some sort of presentation, gathered one of the roses, and with a shy grace offered it to Isabel, who shrank back a little as from too costly a gift.  “Take it,” said the first nun, with her pretty French accent; while the other, who spoke no English at all, beamed a placid smile; and Isabel took it.  The flower, lying light in her palm, exhaled a delicate odor, and a thrill of exquisite compassion for it trembled through her heart, as if it had been the white, cloistered life of the silent nun:  with its pallid loveliness, it was as a flower that had taken the veil.  It could never have uttered the burning passion of a lover for his mistress; the nightingale could have found no thorn on it to press his aching poet’s heart against; but sick and weary eyes had dwelt gratefully upon it; at most it might have expressed, like a prayer, the nun’s stainless love of some favorite saint in paradise.  Cold, and pale, and sweet,—­was it indeed only a flower, this cloistered rose of the Hotel Dieu?