Ordinarily they sat upon the steep terraced slope at the end of the lane, whence one could look down its leaf-fretted vista, or peer over one’s shoulder into the sombre depths of the rarely-visited Florissant place, but to-night he was more venturesome. He led her through the path behind the wall of Annunciation’s big enclosure, until they came to the end of the terrace. Beyond was an open field, once the pasture of the Florissants, and still a part of the property, empty and unused. In its centre through the dusk loomed a dark little hillock clustered with poplars and fir-trees. It was not hard to believe oneself continents away from the noise of any familiar street or the lights of Creve Cœur houses. Directly fronting them lay the dim mass of Annunciation, its half dozen French turrets and many spires floating out of the treetops into crystalline starlight. Potter had often sat in that very spot and pondered on the mystery of this religious stillness, on the utter distance which separated its life from any he had known, its community of young and vital beauty sternly and perhaps rebelliously subordinated to withered holiness. By a paradox of the law of boyhood, the girls in the convent--boarders from comfortable families everywhere in the states--were the subject of vulgar joking among the youngsters thereabouts. To Ellen the convent was not benign; it was a little terrifying and monstrous. All her life she had been awestruck by anything that suggested the gigantic and august power of Rome, and her head was full of legends concerning that religion and its devotees. Superstition had required of her that she regard them--not as individuals but in the mass--as a sinister species apart from ordinary people. Potter remarked that when there was bright moonlight the steep slate pitches of the convent roof looked as though they were sheeted in snow. “There’s lots more of those places in Canada than here,” said she. “They’re not all that they should be, either. Think of sending young girls there!” “Why not?” he asked. She now regretted her outburst and was annoyed at his question. She answered primly: “Why, I wouldn’t tell you, of course.” He laughed, unconcerned and superior. “Pshaw, I know what you mean. I’ve heard those stories too--about nuns being in love with priests. But I don’t believe them.” “Oh, you don’t?” inquired Ellen sarcastically. It was not that she did not think it admirable of him to dislike believing evil of people, but one need not go so far as to defend Catholics.... “No,” he said. “You know why?” “Well, why, smarty?” “Because even people outside of such places, convents and the like, even people who are grown up and free to do as they please--well, they never do anything they want to do. I mean things that just pop into their heads to do.” “Ah, don’t they?” asked Ellen, by this time amused, “And how are you so sure they don’t?” “I just know. They’re too dog-goned cowardly.”