But what new villainy she meditated, we never knew. The chapel door opened,--it was Madame Bouron,--and we fled precipitately back to the schoolroom. As we reached it, the clanging of a bell struck dolorously upon our ears. Our last free hour was over, and silence, the unbroken silence of four days, had fallen like a pall upon the convent. We took off our veils, and slipped limply into line for prayers. The next morning a new order of things reigned throughout the hushed school. The French conversation, which ordinarily made pretence of enlivening our breakfast hour, was exchanged for a soothing stillness. In place of our English classes, we had a sermon from Father Santarius, some chapters of religious reading, and a quiet hour to devote to any pious exercise we deemed most profitable to our souls. Dinner and supper were always silent meals, and one of the older girls read aloud to us,--a pleasant and profitable custom. Now the travels of Père Huc--a most engaging book--was laid aside in favour of Montalembert's "Life of St. Elizabeth of Hungary,"--which also had its charm. Many deficiencies there were in our educational scheme,--it was so long ago,--but the unpardonable sin of commonplaceness could never be counted its shortcoming. After dinner there was an "instruction" from one of the nuns, and more time for private devotions. Then came our three-o'clock _goûter_, followed by a second instruction, Benediction, and the Rosary. After supper, Father Santarius preached to us again in the dimly lit chapel, and our fagged little souls were once more forcibly aroused to the contemplation of their imminent peril. Death, Judgment, Hell, and Heaven--which the catechism says are "the four last things to be remembered"--were the subjects of the four night sermons. Those were not days when soothing syrup was administered in tranquillizing doses from the pulpit.