so many excuses become too irksome, the poor hapless victims are sent off to some other nunnery, and the friends are told that they were not contented, and wished to go to some other place, and that they, generous creatures that they are, have at length, after much solicitation, kindly consented to their removal.  And this too, when they know that these very girls are grieving their lives away, for a sight of those dear friends, who, they are confidently assured, are either dead, or have entirely forgotten them!  Can the world of woe itself furnish deceit of a darker dye?

The Bishop led me up to the altar, and put a lighted candle into my hand.  He then went under the altar, on which a lighted candle was placed, and soon returned followed by two little boys whom they called apostles.  They held, each, a lighted torch with which they proceeded to light two more candles.  On a table near the altar, stood a coffin, and soon two priests entered, bearing another coffin, which they placed beside the other.  A white cloth was spread over them, and burning candles placed at the head and foot.  These movements frightened me exceedingly, for I thought they were going to kill me.

Forgetting in my terror that I was not allowed to speak, I asked the Bishop if he was going to kill me.  “Kill you!” he exclaimed, “O no; don’t be frightened; I shall not hurt you in the least.  But it is our custom, when a nun takes the veil, to lay her in a coffin to show that she is dead to the world.  Did not St. Bridget tell you this?” I told him she did not, but I did not dare to tell him that I supposed she felt so bad when she found I must leave her, that she entirely forgot it.  He then asked very pleasantly, which of the two coffins I liked the best, saying I could have my choice.  I replied, “I have no choice.”  This was true, for although he assured me to the contrary, I still believed he was about to kill me, and I cared very little about my coffin.  They were both large enough for a grown person, and beautifully finished, with a large silver plate on the lid.  The Bishop took me up in his arms, and laid me in one of them, and bade me close my eyes.

I lay in that coffin a long time, as it seemed to me, without the least motion.  I was so much alarmed, I felt as though I could not even lift a finger.  Meantime the Bishop and priests read alternately from a book, but in a language I could not understand.  Occasionally they would come and feel my hands and feet, and say to each other, “She is very cold.”  I believe they were afraid I should die in their hands, of fear.  When at last they took me up, they told me that I would carry that coffin to Montreal with me—­that I would be laid in it when robed for the grave—­and that my bones would moulder to dust in it.  I shall never forget the impression these words made on my mind.  There was something so horrible in the thought of carrying a coffin about with me all my life, constantly reminding me of the shortness of time, and the sure approach of death, I could not endure it.  Gladly would I have left it, costly and elegant as it was, choosing rather to run the risk of being buried without one, but this was not allowed.  I could have no choice in the matter.