But, on passing the chapel, B. would insist on seeing it. Sister Gabrielle hesitated a moment, and then gave way, as you would to a child for the sake of peace. She opened the outer door, and smiled indulgently, as if anxious to humour all our whims. We passed through an anteroom, and then entered the chapel. It was quite small, only large enough to hold about twenty people. The walls were white, without any ornament, and panelled up to about the height of a man. The altar was extremely simple, and decorated with a few flowers. Some rush chairs completed the plenishings of the sanctuary where the good Sisters of Elverdinghe assembled every morning at four o'clock for prayers. And, as we came out of this humble chapel, I noticed two mattresses, laid in a corner of the little anteroom. "Who sleeps here, then, Sister?" I asked. Sister Gabrielle turned as red as a poppy. I had to repeat my question twice, when, lowering her eyes, she answered: "Sister Elizabeth--Sister Elizabeth ... and I." "Sister Gabrielle, ... Sister Gabrielle, then that little room and those two little beds where we slept, were yours?" "Hush! Please come to breakfast at once." And, light as a bird, she disappeared down the staircase, so quickly that her black veil floated high above her, as though to hide her confusion. * * * * * And we saw no more of Sister Gabrielle. It was a very old woman--one of the inmates--who brought us our hot milk and coffee, our brown bread and fresh butter, in the dining-room with the high cupboards of polished wood. She explained that at this hour the nuns were busy attending to their old folk. It was of no use begging to see our little hostess again. We were told it would be against the rules, and we felt that the curtain had now indeed fallen upon this charming act of the weary tragedy. Only, just as we were passing out of the convent gate for the last time, the old lady put into our hands a big packet of provisions wrapped up in a napkin. She had brought it hidden under her apron. "Here, she told me to give you this, and ... to say that she will pray for you." Our hearts swelled as we heard the heavy door close behind us. And whilst we went away silently along the broken, muddy road, we thought of the sterling hearts that are hidden under the humble habits of a convent. Sister Gabrielle! I shall never forget you. Never will your delicate features fade from my memory. And I seem to see you still, going up the great wooden staircase, lit up by the flickering flame of the candle, when you and Sister Elizabeth gave up your beds so simply and unostentatiously to the two unknown soldiers. VIII. CHRISTMAS NIGHT "_Mon Lieutenant mon Lieutenant_, it's two o'clock."