Before she left the room she told Therese to go to old Nannon's, and desire her to come to Rue St Servan. M. Deshoulieres was gone to Epernon, and safe out of the way. Therese, who all the morning had been looking longingly at the soft sunshine and the cool delicate clouds which sailed lazily across her great expanse of sky, was glad to get out into the brightness. It was one of those exquisite days of broken light in which quaint old Charville seemed full of pictures and of memories; a capricious sky, a sweet tender glow upon the stones, here and there a keen shaft of sun-ray, here and there a deep grave shadow--contrasts, but not contradictions. Later in the day there was to be a mass in the Cathedral for the children who were just confirmed; the little white-veiled figures were flitting about in all directions. Therese stood and watched two who came along a narrow, dark street, and under a grey archway; two black-robed sisters in great white flapping caps, stretching out on either side like wings, held their hands. "_Soyez tranquille, mon enfant_," one of them was saying, in her calm, hushed voice, as they passed Therese; it sounded almost like a benediction, as they all went quietly along under the Cathedral and the praying statues. Tears rushed into the girl's eyes; she put out her hands with a sort of vague beseeching for some such kindly words, but no one saw or understood the gesture. The figures went away into the light, Therese remained sadly on the broad steps looking after them. With these solemn walls rising heavenwards; with these serene, mute statues--angels and their harps, saints with folded hands, crowned kings and queens, prophets, apostles, martyrs--standing in majestic unbroken calm, it seemed as if, after all, peace might be the happiness of life. Was it to be found in such an existence as these quiet women had chosen? Would it not be better for her to yield and do as they had done? She shivered at the thought. A little white butterfly fluttered down on the hand of one of the crowned figures, and rose again, as if the touch chilled it. "It is like me," Therese thought bitterly; "I am not good enough for that cold, saintly life." Poor child! There were all kinds of new thoughts wrestling within her; perhaps, among them, breathed the faint distant echo of an eternal truth. Neither in the cloister nor in the world will peace or happiness, or whatever we may call the highest earthly bliss, come to those who seek them selfishly. From behind some sad figure, in companionship where we least expect them, they may step forth smiling. But they are divine gifts; and He who gives has not made them the end of our endeavour, the goal of our race.