They had all given me money, my father, my mother, and my aunt. I had altogether about forty or fifty francs, and I wanted to give all to Père Larcher for buying seed. The Mother Superior smiled and sent for the Mother Treasurer and Mother Ste. Appoline. I had to hand all my money over to the former, with the exception of twenty sous which she left me, saying: “When that is all gone, little girl, come and get some more from me.” Mère Ste. Appoline, who taught botany, then asked me what kind of flowers I wanted. What kind of flowers! Why I wanted every sort that grew. She at once proceeded to give me a botany lesson, by explaining that all flowers did not grow at the same season. She then asked the Mother Treasurer for some of my money, which she gave to Père Larcher, telling him to buy me a spade, a rake, a hoe, and a watering-can, some seeds and a few plants, the names of which she wrote down for him. I was delighted, and I then went with Mother Ste. Sophie to the refectory to have dinner. On entering the immense room I stood still for a second, amazed and confused. More than a hundred girls were assembled there, standing up for the benediction to be pronounced. When the Mother Superior appeared, everyone bowed respectfully, and then all eyes were turned on me. Mother Ste. Sophie took me to the seat which had been chosen for me at the end of the room and then returned to the middle of the refectory. She stood still, made the sign of the cross, and in an audible voice pronounced the benediction. As she left the room, everyone bowed again and I then found myself alone, quite alone in this cage of little wild animals. I was seated between two little girls of from ten to twelve years old, both as dusky as two young moles. They were twins from Jamaica, and their names were Dolores and Pepa Cardanos. They had been in the convent only two months and appeared to be as timid as I was. The dinner was composed of soup, made of everything, and of veal with haricot beans. I detested soup and I have always had a horror of veal. I turned my plate over when the soup was handed round, but the nun who waited on us turned it up again and poured the hot soup in, regardless of scalding me. “You must drink your soup,” whispered my right-hand neighbor, whose name was Pepa. “I don’t like that sort and I don’t want any,” I said aloud. The inspectress was passing by just at that moment. “You must drink your soup, mademoiselle,” she said. “No, I don’t like that sort of soup,” I answered. She smiled and said in a gentle voice: “We must like everything. I shall be coming round again soon. Be a good girl and take your soup.”