"Willingly, we will tell you all we can," said the Reverend Mother. "But you must allow us to offer you a little coffee. You have travelled, and you look white and weary."
The convent was proud of its coffee, almost the only refreshment ever offered to visitors. The portress brought a little oval tray covered with a snow-white napkin, a little brown crockery pot, a white cup and saucer, all of the humblest, but spotlessly clean.
"Léonie was with us eight years," said the Reverend Mother, while Sister Gudule dried her eyes and tried to regain her composure. "She was just ten years old when she was brought to us by her grandmother, a person who had been at one time a dressmaker in one of the most fashionable quarters of Paris, but who had fallen upon evil days, and lived in a very humble way in a small lodging on the left bank of the Seine. Léonie was an orphan, the daughter of Madame Lemarque's only son, who had died young, broken-hearted at the death of his young wife. The child was brought to us by a priest, who came all the way from Paris with his little charge. She had but just recovered from a long illness, which was said to be brain-fever, caused by a very terrible mental shock which she had endured two months before."
"Were you told the nature of that shock?"
"No; the priest did not offer any information upon that point, and I did not presume to question him. He assured me that the case was one which merited the most benevolent consideration. Madame Lemarque had no means of educating the child herself, nor could she afford the pension demanded by a Parisian convent. The curé thought that our fine air would do much to restore the child to health and strength, and he knew that our system of education was calculated to develop her mind and character in the right direction. He guaranteed the regular payment of the child's pension, and we never had occasion to apply for it a second time."
"Did Madame Lemarque ever come to see her granddaughter?"
"Never. Léonie remained with us from year's end to year's end till after her eighteenth birthday, when, at Madame Lemarque's desire, we made arrangements for her travelling to Paris with other pupils who were returning to the great city."
"Then you never saw Madame Lemarque?"
"Never."
"Nor ever heard from her directly?"
"O yes, we had letters—very nicely-written letters—full of gratitude for what Madame Lemarque was pleased to call our kindness to Léonie. The child used to write to her grandmother monthly, while she was with us, and her letters were the best evidence that she was fairly used and happy."
