The Archbishop looked at us benignantly. It was said of him that he dearly loved children, but that he was apt to be bored by adults. He had not what are called "social gifts," and seldom went beyond the common civilities of intercourse. But he would play jackstraws all evening with half a dozen children, and apparently find himself much refreshed by the entertainment. His eyes wandered during the duet to the ends of the semicircle, where sat the very little girls, as rigidly still as cataleptics. Wriggling was not then deemed the prescriptive right of childhood. An acute observer might perhaps have thought that the Archbishop, seated majestically on his dais, and flanked by Reverend Mother and Madame Bouron, glanced wistfully at these motionless little figures. We were, in truth, as remote from him as if we had been on another continent. Easy familiarity with our superiors was a thing undreamed of in our philosophy. The standards of good behaviour raised an impassable barrier between us. Frances Fenton made the address. It was an honour once accorded to Elizabeth, but usually reserved as a reward for superhuman virtue. Not on _that_ score had Elizabeth ever enjoyed it. Frances was first blue ribbon, first medallion, and head of the Children of Mary. There was nothing left for her but beatification. She stepped slowly, and with what was called a "modest grace," into the middle of the room, curtsied, and began:-- "Your children's simple hearts would speak, But cannot find the words they seek. These tones no music's spell can lend; And eloquence would vainly come To greet our Father, Guide, and Friend. Let hearts now speak, and lips be dumb!" "Then why isn't she dumb?" whispered Tony aggressively, but without changing a muscle of her attentive face. I pretended not to hear her. I had little enough discretion, Heaven knows, but even I felt the ripe unwisdom of whispering at such a time. It was Mary Rawdon's absence, at the piano, I may observe, that placed me in this perilous proximity. "Our reverence fond and hopeful prayer Will deck with light one empty place, And fill with love one vacant chair." "What chair?" asked Tony, and again I pretended not to hear. "For e'en regret can wear a softened grace, And smiling hope in whispers low Will oft this cherished thought bestow: Within the Eternal City's sacred wall, He who has blest us in our Convent hall Can now to us earth's holiest blessing bring From God's great martyr saint, Rome's pontiff king."