“We ought to think of it first of all,” said Giselle, who had become serious.  “Sometimes I think my place should have been among these ladies who have brought me up.  They are so good, and they seem to be so happy.  Besides, do you know, I stand less in awe of them than I do of my grandmother.  When grandmamma orders me I never shall dare to object, even if—­But you must think me very selfish, my poor Jacqueline!  I am talking only of myself.  Do you know what you ought to do as you go away?  You should go into the chapel, and pray with all your heart for me, that I may be brought in safety through my troubles about which I have told you, and I will do the same for yours, about which you have not told me.  An exchange of prayers is the best foundation for a friendship,” she added; for Giselle had many little convent maxims at her fingers’ ends, to which, when she uttered them, her sincerity of look and tone gave a personal meaning.

“You are right,” said Jacqueline, much moved.  “It has done me good to see you.  Take this chocolate.”

“And you must take this,” said Giselle, giving her a little illuminated card, with sacred words and symbols.

“Adieu, dearest-say, have you ever detested any one?”

“Never!” cried Giselle, with horror.

“Well!  I do detest—­detest—­You are right, I will go into the chapel.  I need some exorcism.”

And laughing at her use of this last word—­the same little mirthless laugh that she had uttered before—­Jacqueline went away, followed by the admiring glances of the other girls, who from behind the bars of their cage noted the brilliant plumage of this bird who was at liberty.  She crossed the courtyard, and, followed by Modeste, entered the chapel, where she sank upon her knees.  The mystic half-light of the place, tinged purple by its passage through the stained windows, seemed to enlarge the little chancel, parted in two by a double grille, behind which the nuns could hear the service without being seen.

The silence was so deep that the low murmur of a prayer could now and then be heard.  The worshipers might have fancied themselves a hundred leagues from all the noises of the world, which seemed to die out when they reached the convent walls.

Jacqueline read, and re-read mechanically, the words printed in letters of gold on the little card Giselle had given her.  It was a symbolical picture, and very ugly; but the words were:  “Oh! that I had wings like a dove, for then would I flee away and be at rest.”

“Wings!” she repeated, with vague aspiration.  The aspiration seemed to disengage her from herself, and from this earth, which had nothing more to offer her.  Ah! how far away was now the time when she had entered churches, full of happiness and hope, to offer a candle that her prayer might be granted, which she felt sure it would be!  All was vanity!  As she gazed at the grille, behind which so many women, whose worldly lives had been cut short, now lived,