I believed that in her feverish and unsettled state of mind, and with her loose notions of theology, she was doing some sort of penance to satisfy her self-accusing conscience, and I so much wished that the dear child would open her mind to Tessie and me instead, and let us give her all the sisterly counsel in our power. But each day she seemed to shrink more and more from us, as well she might, whilst that man was persuading her to stain her fair soul with the blot of deceit. But there were other reasons for my trying to dissuade Ange from going to the convent. She was very far from well, or fit for the exertion. Whether it proceeded from mind or body, I could not tell, but since the day she had overheard Madame Marmoret’s speech to her father, in the courtyard, she had been quite unlike her former joyous, light-hearted self. Her cheeks were always either unnaturally flushed or unnaturally pale, she complained of a dull headache, and all the bounding elasticity I had so much admired seemed to have deserted her limbs. She was very particular about her religious services at this time, poor dear little Ange, spending an hour almost every evening in the church of St. Marie, and poring over her Bible long after Tessie and I had gone to rest. Still, neither religion nor exercise and fresh air made any palpable difference in the appearance of the little maid, and I felt sure that something was very wrong. My expostulations on the subject with Tessie only brought to light another instance of Mr. Lovett’s selfishness. She looked very grave over the details of her sister’s symptoms, but was afraid to mention them to her father, because it would seem as though Ange required a doctor, and there was none nearer than Rille. He visited St. Pucelle once a week, and when he next came she would ask him to prescribe for Ange; but to send for him especially to visit her was to entail an expense which she was sure ‘dear papa’ could not afford. The time was past for disguising my sentiments in Tessie’s presence, and I told her plainly what I thought on this occasion. Yet she was too timid to move in the matter. ‘Dear papa’ had evidently inspired her with so much wholesome dread of provoking his annoyance, that she preferred to shut her eyes to the fact of there being any danger in delay. But all this time I am standing in the inner _salle_ with that little hot feverish hand in mine. ‘Why must you go to the convent, Ange?’ ‘There is no particular necessity, Hilda,’ she answered, yet she would not meet my eyes as she did so, ‘but it is a pleasure to me, and I feel as if I could not breathe in the house this weather. I know all the sisters well, and their parlours are so cool and pleasant. I feel like another creature inside the convent walls.’ ‘I hope you are not thinking of joining their community, Ange?’ ‘Oh no—oh no!’—with a vivid blush; ‘I am not good enough.’