discussing what each, considered the greatest favour she had received from God. The answer from one would be, "That He has made me a Christian;" from another, "That He became man to rescue me from hell." On one of these occasions, a little voice was heard to say, "The greatest favour that Jesus does us, is to give Himself for our food in the Holy Eucharist." The speaker, though only nine years of age, had made her first Communion a year and a half before. The Mother of the Incarnation, who mentions the circumstance, adds the reflection, "Are not such sentiments admirable in children born in the very bosom of barbarism and infidelity?" If a pupil saw a companion commit a fault, she checked her by the simple words, "Take care, or your guardian angel will go away." In proportion as the souls of these poor children opened to the softening influence of religion, so did the hitherto latent qualities of their better nature manifest themselves more clearly. In the genial atmosphere of charity, their hearts expanded as flowers in sunshine, developing a depth, a constancy, and a delicacy of feeling which none would have suspected to underlie manners so cold, and characters apparently so apathetic. They learned fully to appreciate, and sought only how best they might return the tenderness of their devoted Mothers, and, as affection is a ready teacher, they were not slow to discover that the best proof of their gratitude would be found in strict compliance with the wishes of their instructresses; hence the docility to directions, the submission to reproof, the respect for school regulations, exemplified in the daily lives of the seminarists, and all the more to be admired that such practices were foreign to their habits and repugnant to their nature. Madame de la Peltrie writes that they showed her the deference and love of fond children, as well as a degree of refinement which, she says, she would never have expected from savages. In her temporary charge of them during the nuns' annual retreat, she found no difficulty in enforcing silence; it was enough for them to know that their dear Mothers were spending the week with God; the mere fear of even slightly disturbing them, proved a sufficient restraint. If the Foundress occasionally happened to be absent for a short time on some errand of mercy, they were inconsolable until her return, which they greeted with joyous acclamations. Once they were told that the Mother of the Incarnation was ill, and would die if they made a noise. At the sound of the word _die_, they burst into tears, and, with a consideration which would have done honour to more polished natures, they kept perfectly still, afraid, as it seemed, to move, or almost to breathe, lest dreaded death should come and claim their first, best earthly friend. As early as 1641, the Venerable Mother described the converts in general as transformed beings--barbarians no longer, but fervent Christians, animated, by a truly heavenly spirit.