She used to come home for the holidays, and a handsome French lady with her, who used to throw up her hands if we had not ribbons in our sleeves and smart rosettes on our shoes.

I remember sister Mary in a pretty white frock trimmed with lace, and her hair curled down to her waist.

I used to think her like one of the angels.

But we never speak of her now, nor of papa, because it pains mother and John.

I used to speak of her to Jane sometimes in the night, just to ask her did she think sister Mary was thinking of us in heaven; but Jane used to get into such dreadful fits of crying that I grew afraid.