I do not need to say that the wonderful image was placed in an elegant niche, that it was surrounded by odorous candles, bathed in perfumes, laden with a rich crown, and acknowledged, till half way through the night, by the hymns of the faithful. But, in the morning, it could no longer be found and all the Christians who, by gaining her, had been filled with such pure happiness, were much alarmed. What secret sin could have brought down this disgrace on the manor house of THE SAINT? Why had the Virgin Mary left it? What new resting place had she chosen? We may doubtless guess. The blessed mother of Jesus preferred the modest shadow of her favourite bushes to the dazzle of an earthly dwelling. She had gone back, in the midst of the coolness of the woods, to taste the peace of solitude and the sweet exhalations of the flowers. All the people who lived in the castle went there at dusk and found her there, even more resplendent than she had been the previous night. They fell on their knees in respectful silence. "Potent queen of angels!" said the chatelaine. "This is the abode you prefer. Your will be done." And indeed, not long afterwards, a shrine embellished by all the adornments that an inspired architect could lavish on it in those centuries of feeling and imagination rose around that venerated image. The great and good of the earth wanted to enrich it with their gifts. Kings endowed it with a tabernacle of pure gold. The fame of Our Lady's miracles spread far and wide throughout the Christian world and summoned to the valley a multitude of pious women who dwelt there according to a monastic rule. The saintly widow, more touched than ever by the light of grace, could not refuse the title of mother superior of this convent. She died there full of days after a life of good works, good examples and sacrifices which rose up like a perfume from the foot of Our Lady's altars. Such was, according to the handwritten records of the province, the origin of the church and convent of Our Lady of the Flowering Thorns.