Such were our environments, and our minds naturally often dwelt on the nature and power of the religion that had built up and maintained for centuries these peaceful resorts, where cultivated, scholarly men, and women of fine sensibilities, could find rest from the struggles of the outside world.  The sisters, who managed this large establishment, seemed happy in the midst of their severe and multifarious duties.  Of the undercurrent of their lives I could not judge, but on the surface all seemed smooth and satisfactory.  They evidently took great pleasure in the society of each other.  Every evening, from six to eight, they all sat in the gardens in a circle together, sewing, knitting, and chatting, with occasional merry bursts of laughter.  Their existence is not, by many degrees, as monotonous as that of most women in isolated households—­especially of the farmer’s wife in her solitary home, miles away from a village and a post office.  They taught a school of fifty orphan girls, who lived in the convent, and for whom they frequently had entertainments.  They also had a few boarders of the old aristocracy of France, who hate the Republic and still cling to their belief in Popes and Kings.  For the purpose of perfecting herself in the language, my daughter embraced every opportunity to talk with all she met, and thus learned the secrets of their inner life.  As Sister Rose spoke English, I gleaned from her what knowledge I could as to their views of time and eternity.  I found their faith had not made much progress through the terrible upheavals of the French Revolution.  Although the Jesuits have been driven out of France, and the pictures of Saints, the Virgin Mary, and Christ, have been banished from the walls of their schools and colleges, the sincere Catholics are more devoted to their religion because of these very persecutions.

Theodore, his wife, and baby, and Mr. Blatch, a young Englishman, came to visit us.  The sisters and school children manifested great delight in the baby, and the former equal pleasure in Mr. Blatch’s marked attention to my daughter, as babies and courtships were unusual tableaux in a convent.  As my daughter was studying for a university degree in mathematics, I went with her to the Lycee, a dreary apartment in a gloomy old building with bare walls, bare floors, dilapidated desks and benches, and an old rusty stove.  Yet mid such surroundings, the professor always appeared in full dress, making a stately bow to his class.  I had heard so much of the universities of France that I had pictured to myself grand buildings, like those of our universities; but, instead, I found that the lectures were given in isolated rooms, here, there, and anywhere—­uniformly dreary inside and outside.