But we wake in the young morning when the light is breaking forth;And look out on its misty gleams, as if the moon were full; And the Infinite around, seems but a larger kind of earth Ensphering this, and measured by the self-same handy rule.Hilda among the Broken Gods.
Not unfrequently the most important years of a life, the years which tell most on the character, are unmarked by any notable events.A steady, orderly routine, a gradual progression, perseverance in hard work, often do more to educate and form than a varied and eventful life.Erica's two years of exile were as monotonous and quiet as the life of the secularist's daughter could possibly be.There came to her, of course, from the distance the echoes of her father's strife; but she was far removed from it all, and there was little to disturb her mind in the quiet Parisian school.There is no need to dwell on her uneventful life, and a very brief description of her surroundings will be sufficient to show the sort of atmosphere in which she lived.
The school was a large one, and consisted principally of French provincial girls, sent to Paris to finish their education.Some of them Erica liked exceedingly; every one of them was to her a curious and interesting study.She liked to hear them talk about their home life, and, above all things, to hear their simple, naive remarks about religion.Of course she was on her honor not to enter into discussions with them, and they regarded all English as heretics, and did not trouble themselves to distinguish between the different grades.But there was nothing to prevent her from observing and listening, and with some wonder she used to hear discussions about the dresses for the "Premiere Communion," remarks about the various services, or laments over the confession papers.
The girls went to confession once a month, and there was always a day in which they had to prepare and write out their misdemeanors.
One day, a little, thin, delicate child from the south of France came up to Erica with her confession in her hand.
"Dear, good Erica," she said, wearily, "have the kindness to read this and to correct my mistakes."Erica took the little thing on her knee, and began to read the paper.It was curiously spelled.Before very long she came to the sentence, "J'ai trop mange.""Why, Ninette," exclaimed Erica, "you hardly eat enough to feed a sparrow; it is nonsense to put that.""Ah, but it was a fast day," signed Ninette."And I felt hungry, and did really eat more than I need have."Erica felt half angry and contemptuous, half amused, and could only hope that the priest would see the pale, thin face of the little penitent, and realize the ludicrousness of the confession.
Another time all the girls had been to some special service; on their return, she asked what it had been about.
"Oh," remarked a bright-faced girl, "it was about the seven joys--or the seven sorrows--of Mary."
"Do you mean to say you don't know whether it was very solemn or very joyful?" asked Erica, astonished and amused.
"I am really not sure," said the girl, with the most placid good-tempered indifference.
On the whole, it was scarcely to be wondered at that Erica was not favorably impressed with Roman Catholicism.
She was a great favorite with all the girls; but, though she was very patient and persevering, she did not succeed in making any of them fluent English speakers, and learned their language far better than they learned hers.Her three special friends were not among the pupils, but among the teachers.Dear old Mme.Lemercier, with her good-humored black eyes, her kind, demonstrative ways, and her delightful stories about the time of the war and the siege, was a friend worth having.So was her husband, M.Lemercier the journalist.He was a little dried-up man, with a fierce black mustache; he was sarcastic and witty, and he would talk politics by the hour together to any one who would listen to him, especially if they would now and then ask a pertinent and intelligent question which gave him scope for an oration.
Erica made a delightful listener, for she was always anxious to learn and to understand, and before long she was quite AU FAIT, and understood a great deal about that exceedingly complicated thing, the French political system.M.Lemercier was a fiery, earnest little man, with very strong convictions; he had been exiled as a communist but had now returned, and was a very vigorous and impassioned writer in one of the advanced Republican journals.He and his wife became very fond of Erica, Mme.Lemercier loving her for her brightness and readiness to help, and monsieur for her beauty and her quickness of perception.It was surprising and gratifying to meet with a girl who, without being a femme savante, was yet capable of understanding the difference between the Extreme Left and the Left Center, and who took a real interest in what was passing in the world.
But Erica's greatest friend was a certain Fraulein Sonnenthal, the German governess.She was a kind-eyed Hanoverian, homely and by no means brilliantly clever, but there was something in her unselfishness and in her unassuming humility that won Erica's heart.She never would hear a word against the fraulein.
"Why do you care so much for Fraulein Sonnenthal?" she was often asked."She seems uninteresting and dull to us.""I love her because she is so good," was Erica's invariable reply.
