The morning star and Catholic messenger. [volume] (New Orleans [La.]) 1868-1881, 1870-01-16
SISTER ALoYsE's REQUEST.
FROM THE FRENCH.
CHAPTER /.

How delightful it is to sit under the grand
old trees of the courtyard on tins Charming
midsummer evening! The light breeze is re-
dolent with the fragrance OF the new mown
hay, and the leaves seem to qniver with JOY IN
an atmos phere heavy with sunshine. The sWal-
lows pursue each other in play with short Wild
cries, aud in the foliage of the linden tree that
brown bird, the nightingale tries her brilliant
cadenCes drowned at times by the shouts of
the children at their sports answering her in
the silences, whom withOub.dOubt they under
stood and admired. The children happy as
the birds, dance and whirl about, just like
those NOTES one frequently sees rising up IN
sunbeam. The nuns, sombre and silent figures,
watch them, contemplating life in its flower
and carelessuess. This courtyard where the
children play and the birds sing belonged
formerly to q monastery of the order of st.
Bepoit: but now to a cioister built ont of its
ruins, where the virtue of ancient days Hour
ish under the shelter of modern walls, which
are ballowed by the memories of the past
Some young girls, no less pleased with the
gambols of the children, were walking IN
groups to and fro under the vaulted arches
which eneircled the court, talking and laugh
ing merrily; but whenever they approached
nun reclining in an easy chair, by an involun-
tary impulse they lowered their voices. She
was poor invalid, who had been brought out
to- enjoy the sweet odors and the pleasant
warmth of the cycuirrs.-She- appeared be
nearing the end of1ife, though still young.
For the palenesS of her checks, the emacIatlon
of her body, and the transparent whiteheSs OF
her hands all proclaimed the ravages of a long
and incurable illness. There was no more sand
in the hour glass, no more oil IN the lamp, ana
her heart--like a timepiece about to stop-was
Stacking its pulsations. One could not help but
see that Sister Aloyse retained Il very powerful
fascination m the beauty which her terrible
illness had not been able to etfacc. Her dark
blue ewes had not lost their almond shape or
sapphire hue. Her figure was still elegant
seen under the loose robe which wrapped her
like windiuG-sheet; and her voice was MS
sweet and agreeable as in former days
At first she felt a little better upon being
brought into the garden but she still suffered,
and neither the pure air nor the mlidnesS OF the
beautiful evening had revived her. She sat in
silence, absorbed, perhaps in those last
. thoughts which she did not Conhdc even to
herself and which, to one who-iS-about depart
ing, seem to give q glimpse of those unknown
shores which are yet so near to her VINO waits
What is she thinking off OF her past with
ont remorse; of her future without terror
Does she regret anything which she has re-
nounced for her God Does one last thread
hold captive this celestial bird ? cannot say.
She appears sad; yet her companions, always
SO affectionately attentive, do not seem to be
surprised. For Sister Aloyse had always been
characterized, even in the more beautiful days
of her youth, by kind of melancholy. She
resembed angel of peace, but yet an angel
- One young girl who was walking under the
arches regarded her with great interest and
finally leaving the group by whom she was sur
rounded approached the nun, dropped on her
knees in the grass before her, and looking in
her face, said earnestly
"Weli, my sister, are you better this even
ingH" --.
Sister Aloyse blushed slightly, just as porce-
lain is tinged with faint rose color when
flame is passed behind it, and answered in a
voice sweet and low: -
"Thank you, Camille! 1 am not well, and
shall never be any better till l come into the
presence of our Lord. Lookl Does 1T noTseem
indeed as if the gates of heaven were opening
yonderW
She pointed to the West, then filed with the
glory and splendor of purple and gold and flame
cOlOrs,