W

IN A BRETON CONVENT.

NOW EMPTIED BY FRENCH LAW.

BY ANNA SEATON SCHMIDT.

ILL you go with me to visit my sick people, mademoiselle ? See, I have my pockets filled with good things." Pretty Sister Catherine laughed merrily at our exclamations of surprise over the number of her treasures. Surely there never were such capacious pockets as those of the Sisters at Penmarc'h! As we walked through the fields the children stopped their work and ran to beg something from their con

tents.

"But we are going to visit the sick. You would not take from them? Here's a pear for you, Marie Jeanne, and an apple for Marie Louise. How is the baby this morning, Marie Kenig? Oh! you have him with you. Look, mademoiselle, that is our

little Jean Marie asleep on the ground."

"Will he not catch cold?" we anxiously inquired.

"Dear no; all the babies sleep on the warm, soft earth while their mothers work in the fields."

It was a beautiful summer morning. Far out at sea the blue waves danced in the sunshine, chasing each other to the shore, where they dashed their white spray high against the rocks. On our right were green fields filled with peasants in gay Breton costumes. "Do the women and children always work in the fields, or only during the harvesting ?"

"But the ground must first be ploughed and the seed sown, mademoiselle!"

"Yes, but in our country the men do that."

"And at what do the women work?"

"Oh, they stay at home and cook for the men!"

"But that is very hard, mademoiselle.

It is so much nicer

to be out of doors. When I was a girl I loved to work in the fields, and now the bonne Mère permits me to take charge of our garden. We raise many potatoes."

"Do you never grow tired of eating them ?"

"Then what should we eat, mademoiselle? We are too poor to buy meat or fish. With bread and milk and potatoes one can live quite well."

While Sister Catherine ministered to her sick in Kerity, we walked out on the pier to watch the fishing boats come in. Many had landed that morning. The catch had been a large one, and the happy fishermen were lounging about watching the new arrivals, each with a baby in his arms. The little whitecapped heads rested lovingly against the weather-beaten cheeks of these rough, uncouth men, whose first thought on landing had been of home and children. They saw that we were admiring their babies and that we had a kodac. too reserved to ask us to take their plain that each fisherman thought his We could not resist a few snap shots, and as they turned out well we decided to present the photographs to the proud fathers. Not knowing the sailors' names, Sister Catherine offered to go over with us and find the owners. What excitement in Kerity! Every man, woman, and child in the village crowded about us. Each photograph had to be held aloft for inspection. Shouts of joy greeted the recognition of the babies.

Being Bretons, they were photographs, but it was child a splendid subject!

The Bretons bear little resemblance to the Parisians except in this national characteristic of adoration for their children. A man must be very drunk indeed to abuse his child, as was unfortunately too often the case with the father of Marie Chiffon,* a little girl in whom we became deeply interested. The first time that we saw her she was standing motionless in the hot, dusty road. In one hand she held her wooden shoes, the other was folded across her breast. Her head, in its large Breton bonnet, was reverently bowed, while she murmured strange words in her queer Gaelic tongue.

"She is begging," said Margaret. "They never ask for anything in Brittany; they just stand still and pray aloud for their benefactors until some one gives them food or money."

As we approached to put some pennies in the child's hand, she raised her head and met our eyes with the furtive, startled gaze of a wild beast. It was terrible to see such a look on a human face-above all, that of a little child. She could not understand one word of French, and we were unable to find out to whom she belonged until our return to the convent.

"It must have been Marie Clé," said Sister Othilde. "Her mother died when she was a baby, leaving a boy but little older than Marie. The poor husband was wild with grief. To forget his sorrow he began to drink and has gone from bad to worse. Now, when not at sea, he is drunk, and often beats the poor children cruelly. Marie is but six, yet he makes her beg on the public road with her brother. If they return at night empty-handed, they know what is in store for them. Sometimes they wander off for weeks at a time, sleeping in the fields rather than face their angry father. My heart aches whenever I think of them"; and little Sister Othilde's blue eyes filled with tears.

A few days later we came upon the same queer-looking child. She was trudging along, the tears streaming down her brown cheeks and trickling off the end of her freckled little nose. At the sound of our voices she threw herself on the ground, sobbing violently.

"I cannot stand this," exclaimed the artist. "Something must be done for the child"; and gathering her up in her strong young arms, she started for the convent. Startled by such abrupt proceedings, Marie lay quite still, crying softly until we reached the door; then, terrified probably by the thought that she was again to be beaten, she leaped from the artist's arms and darted towards the gate, where Sister Catherine caught her. She fought like a wild animal for her freedom, and it was some time before the good sister could soothe her sufficiently to make her understand that we were her

friends.

"She says that she has had nothing to eat since yesterday morning, and that her father beat her most terribly last night because she had no money. Her brother ran away; she has been searching for him all morning.'

While the sister gave her food, we went to talk over the situation with the Mother Superior. "We will gladly do all that we can, mes chères demoiselles, but we are very poor; any day the government may deprive us of our small income. We dare not increase our expenses. If the child will come to school we will look after her and give her something to eat. She has an aunt in the next village with whom she can stay." So it was arranged; Marie was to come to school, her aunt

We took up a col

Sister Catherine knew a kind-hearted woman who kept a little store in Kerity. She was sure of getting enough material from her to make Marie a Sunday dress. lection, and started the good sister off to and buy what she must for a new outfit. This was followed by a merry sewing bee.

beg what she could

Perhaps my readers think that we made the new clothes after the simplest possible patterns. Not at all. Marie Chiffon must be dressed in the costume of the village from whence she came. So sacred are the traditions of Brittany that even the dear sisters were horrified at our suggestion to dispense with the bustle and long, heavy underskirts to which the poor child was condemned! But even the elaborate clothes of a Breton peasant must yield to the nimble fingers of a dozen seamstresses, and by Sunday Marie was no longer Marie Chiffon but Marie pe fichet!* Alas! Monday came, but no little girl. On Thursday we were driving in a distant village and found Marie begging with her brother, the new clothes in a sad plight, owing to the fact of her having slept in the open fields. The boy ran away as we approached, and Marie gladly climbed into our wagon. When questioned as to her long absence, she said that Jean had persuaded her to run away with him. The next week Marie again failed to appear, and we realized that it was impossible to rescue her from a life of vagabondage unless she remained as a pensionnaire with the sisters.

"If some one would pay even two dollars a month we could keep her," said the good mother.

We promised that the "some one" should be found, and Marie was installed as a boarder at two dollars a month! The only drawback was poor Jean. He refused to be comforted for the loss of his small playfellow, and for days hung about the place trying to coax her away. It seemed cruel to separate them, but such a life has only one ending for a girl in France, and the boy was so wedded to his roving existence that nothing could tempt him to renounce it. School he regarded as a place of bondage and work as slavery. Sorrowfully we resigned poor little Jean to his fate, and tried to console ourselves with the marvellous transformation wrought in Marie. Day by day the hunted, animal look disappeared; she