But at last we found out the truth. Dénise was taken suddenly ill in chapel. She fainted and was carried out by Mother Prudentia. She did not come to her own bed that night, and in the morning Mother told us with solemnity that Dénise would never sleep in that bed again—that she had been taken with bleeding at the lungs and might indeed be considered a dying person. "If she lives to see the snowdrops come, it will be a wonder!" said the dear Mother, wiping her eyes. "I have long known that death had set his seal on her, but I did not think the end would come so soon. God's will be done." "Will her friends come to see her, Mother?" I asked. "She has no friends except those in these walls, child, not a relation alive that I know of!" answered the Mother. Adding in a lower tone—"So much the better for her. It will be all the easier for her to leave this world." The Mother turned away and we finished dressing and began to make our beds by the light of the lamp Mother had left us, for it was mid-winter and the mornings were dark and cold. "Lucy, do you suppose that Dénise's friends were Protestants?" asked Amabel in a low tone. She always called me Lucy in English fashion—never Lucille, as the others did. "I don't know!" I answered. "Why should you think so?" "Partly from something Mother said once—that she was at least one brand plucked from the burning, and partly from some things Dénise herself told me. We were talking about what we could remember before we came here, and Dénise said, 'My father used to read the Holy Scriptures—I know that! I often repeat to myself little bits that I remember. He said prayers that are not in any of our books, and he and my mother used to sing sweet songs about holy things!' And then she repeated one about the Lord being a Shepherd." "That is in the twenty-third Psalm!" said I. "Yes, but this was in rhyme and had a sweet tune to it!" persisted Amabel. "I think I could sing it. It makes me think of the time before we came here. How much can you remember of that time, Lucy?" "Very little indeed!" said I. "I don't remember my mother at all, though I often try to do so." "I recollect exactly how she looked!" said Amabel musingly. "You are very much like her at times, only you are not so quiet. And I remember my father too—I am sure I should know him in a moment." "I suppose if Dénise's friends were Protestants, it is just as well that they are out of the way," I remarked. And then, struck with a sudden thought—"But Amabel, I suppose your father and all your friends are Protestants, because all English people are so. What should we do if he were to send for us to come back to England?" "We should go I suppose!" answered Amabel. "And then should we have to become Protestants?" "I don't know. They would not make us Protestants if we did not choose whatever they might do." "Perhaps your father is a Catholic!" I suggested.