"My own folly and wickedness," I answered. "But I cannot tell you the story now. David, if you ever loved me, go, or send to Lord Stanton, at Stanton Court, near Biddeford, in Devonshire. Tell him you saw me here a prisoner. Watch what they do with me, and carry him word. Tell Andrew Corbet that I have always loved him, and always shall. But how are you here in safety?" "I am of too much use for my master to spare me, and so he gives me protection," was the reply; "but it will not be for long. But what of my father and mother—of madame? Do you know anything?" "Maman is in heaven. Your parents are at Tre Madoc, in Cornwall, living in comfort. My lord will tell you. David, have you a little Gospel?" He took from an inner pocket a little thin, worn book, made for concealment—the Gospel of St. Luke. "Give it me—I have none," said I, and he put it into my hand. "Lucille," said I. "I know nothing of her," was the sorrowful answer. "Since she left Sartilly I have heard once that she escaped, and again that she was dead. Depend upon me, Vevette!" Then, as Susanne made a warning sign, he pressed my hand and passed on. The convent gate was once more opened, and I was summoned to descend. I was led by a nun through a long passage, then along a cloister which bounded one side of the convent burial-place, and at last into the parlor, where sat my uncle and aunt. Behind the grating stood a lady in conventual dress, whom I judged to be the Superior. She looked like a fussy, important sort of personage, but she had a kind, motherly face. Behind her stood two other nuns, in the dress of the Ursulines. "This is the young lady," said my uncle, presenting me to the Superior. "I trust she may be a credit to those friends who have exerted themselves to provide for her. As you have the king's letter and the other papers, reverend mother, it will not be needful for us to trespass longer on your valuable time." So saying, and without a word of leave-taking, he took my aunt's hand and led her away. "So you are the last!" said the Superior, addressing me not unkindly. "You do not look so very strong for a colonist, I must say; but since you have the king's own letter there is nothing to be said. What think you, my sister?" turning to the elderly woman who stood behind her. "I think his Majesty is beside himself," answered the latter, with a bluntness which somehow surprised me while it made me like her. "She looks much fitter to help Sister Therese in the schoolroom, or Sister Veronique with her embroidery, than to rough it in a new country. Have you been ill, child?" "No, madame," I answered, "but I am weary with my journey." "You should say reverend mother," corrected the nun not ungently. "We do not keep worldly titles and family names here, like the ladies of the Sacred Heart. We are all mothers and sisters. Would it not be well, my mother, for this child to rest for a while before joining her companions for the voyage?"