The Argosy — page 143: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

128 A Romance of the Cloister. ‘ Not yet; my tears would choke me if I tried to swallow,” she said. ‘‘I have, then, no father; hearts are turned to stone outside the convent walls. But it is not so much for myself I grieve. I can earn my bread as other women do; I have not forgotten the little I learned at school. But, oh, it will be long, long before I can repay your sacrifices. And that good peasant woman whose very clothes I wear!” “JT have your cross still; if of pure gold it will bring you money for pressing needs,” he said. ‘‘ And I will see what I have left of my own. Could I get to Paris 3 You will not leave me—at least, not yet P ” she cried, clinging to him, refusing to take back her trinket. ‘If left to myself, who knows, perhaps want would drive me back to the cloister P ” Just then, when with despondency at heart each was trying to cheer and soothe the other, the bent figure of an ancient woman hobbled up. She was dressed in the Alsatian costume: bright ker- chief, white stomacher, black skirt bordered with green, and an enormous knot of broad black ribbon surmounting the small, yellow, wrinkled face. © Don’t look at me; don’t speak to me, child; it would break my heart,” she said, standing over the amazed girl. ‘‘ You must remem- ber your nurse, your old Lisbeth. Ah! I went on my knees, begging you not to take the veil; and the death-knell that sounded over you was a death-knell to me. I had no one to love me when my bright Etiennette was shut up in the cloister, dead, buried; dead and buried, so she seemed.” She fumbled at her pocket and brought out a reticule of antique stamped velvet with a silver clasp. ‘Look you, darling,” she whispered as she leaned on her stick, “‘T shall have a soft bed to lie on, dainties to eat as long as I live ; and when I am dead, never fear, masses in plenty will be said for Lisbeth’s soul. But my master has wedded a young wife ; my hoardings shall never go to the child of a stranger. Here, my heart’s love, hide it quickly. The bag holds five thousand francs as I live! a little dowry for you. No, don’t kiss me; don’t let me hear your sweet voice. Iam too old tocry. We have parted—but there’s the money.” ‘And whose should it be but yours?” said Etiennette when she had done weeping. ‘‘ My true, now my only friend, poorly are you repaid even thus.” She thrust the treasure into his unwilling fingers, but it was long before he could stammer out a word of thanks. To the ingenuous mind of the young peasant Lisbeth’s gift was nothing short of down- right fortune. With five thousand francs a wary man could start as a colonist in Algeria, or for the matter of that, set up as a market- gardener or dairy-farmer in France. Five thousand francs would make a man of him anywhere. CORNICE OOOMKS se)