It was with a feeling of awe that I opened my mother's door. She was up and dressed, and lay back in a great chair, with her little worn prayer-book in her hand. I now remembered seeing her slip it into her bosom when we changed our dresses in such a hurry. She held out her arms to me, and I fell into them weeping; but she did not weep, and I never saw her shed a tear but once afterward. Seeing how calm she was, I tried to quiet myself, and succeeded. Then she read to me that prayer in the Litany which begins, "O God, Merciful Father," and then for a while we were silent. "Do you feel quite well, my Vevette?" she asked at last. "Yes, dear maman, only tired," I answered truly; for though my head was a little inclined to be giddy, and I had an odd feeling of bewilderment, as though I were some one beside myself, I had no pain. "Why do you ask?" "Your eyes are heavy, and your cheeks more flushed than usual; that is all." "And you, maman?" "I am quite well, my love, only weary, as you say. Have you seen any of the family?" "No, maman; only that kind, gentle old lady. She called herself my Cousin Marianne. Who is she?" "She is your cousin, as she said—the sister of Mr. George Corbet, the rector of this parish, and whose household she has governed since his wife died. A better woman never lived, nor one on whom advancing years made less impression. We have fallen among kind friends in our exile, my Vevette, and we must take care to show that we appreciate their kindness. You will find your cousins' ways quite different from anything you have been used to; but do not fall into the common error of thinking that therefore those ways must be wrong. Even if they should laugh at you, take it in good part and laugh with them." "I do not feel as if I should ever have the heart to laugh again," said I, sighing. "Ah, my dear one, you are young, and youth is elastic. Your father would not wish to have all your life wrapped in gloom because he hath been so early and so easily removed to his eternal rest. But oh, my child, if you are ever tempted to sin against your own soul by denying your religion, remember it was for that your father laid down his life." "I will never deny my religion!" said I almost indignantly. "I trust not; but no one knows how he may be tempted. There are other inducements besides that of escaping persecution. The smiles of the world are far more dangerous to natures like yours than its frowns, and more than one of our religion has given up to blandishments and to ambition what he would never have yielded to the rack. Your father was attacked on this side many a time, with promises of high command, of court favor, and kingly grace, but he never yielded an inch—no, not, as I believe, in his inmost thoughts. Remember it, my Vevette, and let his example be, next to your duty to Heaven, the guiding light of your life."