I continued to regain my health slowly, and the Abbess said they would soon send me back to the nursery. I could not endure the thought of this, for I had the greatest fear of the Abbess who had the charge of that department. She was very cruel, while St. Bridget was as kind as she dare to be. She knew full well that if she allowed herself to exhibit the least feeling of affection for those children, she would be instantly removed, and some one placed over them who would not give way to such weakness. We all saw how it was, and loved her all the more for the severity of her reproofs when any one was near. With tears, therefore, I begged to be allowed to stay with her; and when the priest came for me, she told him that she thought I had better remain with her till I gained a little more strength.

To this he consented, and I was very grateful indeed for the kindness. Wishing in some way to express my gratitude, as soon as I was able I assisted in taking care of the other little girls as much as possible. St. Bridget, in turn, taught me to read a little, so that I could learn my prayers when away from her. She also gave me a few easy lessons in arithmetic, and instructed me to speak the Celt language. She always spoke in that, or the French, which I could speak before, having learned it from the family where I lived after my father gave up his saloon. They were French Catholics and spoke no other language.

As soon as I was sufficiently recovered to leave my room, I was taken to the chapel to be confirmed. Before they came for me, the abbess told me what questions would be asked, and the answers I should be required to give. She said they would ask me if I wished to see my father; if I should like to go back to the world, etc. To these and similar questions she said I must give a negative answer. "But," said I, "that will be a falsehood, and I will not say so for any of them." "Hush, hush, child!" she exclaimed, with a frightened look. "You must not talk so. From my heart I pity you; but it will be better for you to answer as I tell you, for if you refuse they will punish you till you do. Remember," she added, emphatically, "remember what I say: it will be better for you to do as I tell you." And she made me promise that I would. "But why do they wish me to tell a lie?" I asked. "They do not wish you to tell a lie," she replied; "they wish you to do right, and feel right; to be contented and willing to forget the world." "But I do not wish to forget the world," I said. "I am not contented, and saying that I am will not make me feel so. Is it right to tell a lie?" "It is right for you to obey," she replied, with more severity in her tone than I ever heard before. "Do you know," she continued, "that it is a great sin for you to talk so?" "A sin!" I exclaimed, in astonishment; "why is it a sin?" "Because," she replied, "you have no right to inquire why a command is given. Whatever the church commands, we must obey, and that, too, without question or complaint. If we are not willing to do this, it is the duty of the Bishop and the priests to punish us until we are willing. All who enter a convent renounce forever their own will." "But I didn't come here myself," said I; "my father put me here to stay a few years. When I am eighteen I shall go out again." "That does not make any difference," she replied. "You are here, and your duty is obedience. But my dear," she continued, "I advise you never again to speak of going out, for it can never be. By indulging such hopes you are preparing yourself for a great disappointment. By speaking of it, you will, I assure you, get yourself into trouble. You may not find others so indulgent as I am; therefore, for your own sake, I hope you will relinquish all idea of ever leaving the convent, and try to be contented." Such was the kind of instruction I received at the White Nunnery. I did not feel as much disappointed at the information that I was never to go into the world again as she had expected. I had felt for a long time, almost, indeed, from my first entrance, that such would be my fate, and though deeply grieved, I was able to control my feelings.

The great day at length came for which the Abbess had been so long preparing me. I say great, for in our monotonous life, the smallest circumstance seemed important. Moreover, I was assured that my future happiness depended very much upon the answers, I that day gave to the various questions put to me. When about to be taken to the chapel, St. Bridget begged the priest to be careful and not frighten me, lest it should bring on my fits again. I was led into the chapel and made to kneel before the altar. The bishop and five priests were present, and also, a man whom I had never seen before, but I was told he was the Pope's Nuncio, and that he came a long way to visit them. I think this was true, for they all seemed to regard him as a superior. I shall never forget my feelings when he asked me the following questions, which I answered as I had been directed. "Who do you believe in?" "God." "How many persons are there in God?" "Three; the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." "What world have you lately left?" "The world of sin and Satan." "Do you wish to go back and live with your father?" "No Sir." "Do you think you can live all your life with us." "I think I can, sir." He then said, "You will not fare any better than you have hitherto, and perhaps not as well." It was with the greatest difficulty that I could control my feelings sufficiently to answer this last question. But remembering what the Abbess had told me, I suppressed my tears, and choked down the rising sob. Surely those men must have known that I was telling a falsehood—that the profession I made was not in accordance with my real sentiments. For myself, I then felt, and still feel that the guilt was not mine. The sin did not rest with me.

The Bishop was then told to hear my confession, after which, a priest took some ointment from a small box, and rubbed it on my forehead, and another priest came with a towel and wiped it off. I was then taken back to St. Bridget, with whom I remained, as long as I was in the White Nunnery.

On my tenth birthday, the Bishop came to the Abbess very early in the morning, and informed her that I was to take the White Veil that day, and immediately after the ceremony, I would leave for the Grey Nunnery in Montreal. He desired her to make all the necessary preparation, and take her leave of me, as she would not see me again. This was sad news for us both, for I felt that she was my only friend, and I knew that she felt for me, the most sincere affection. She gave me much good advice in reference to my future conduct, and with tears exhorted me to be kind, cheerful, and obedient. I was going to a new place, she said, and if I was a good girl, and sought to please my superiors, I would find some one to be kind to me. She advised me to try and appear contented in whatever situation I might be placed, and above all other considerations, never disobey the least command. "Obedience," she again repeated, "is the rule in all convents, and it will be better for you to obey at once, and cheerfully, and willingly comply with every request, than to incur displeasure and perhaps punishment, by any appearance of reluctance or hesitation. If there is any one thing that you dislike to do, be sure that you do not betray your feelings, for if you do, that will be the very thing they will require of you; and I assure you, if you once become the object of suspicion or dislike, your condition will be anything but agreeable. You will be marked and watched, and required to do many unpleasant things, to say the least. Therefore I hope you will perform all your duties with a cheerful and willing spirit." Bitterly did I grieve at the thought of being separated from the only being on earth who seemed to care for me. In the anguish of the moment, I wished I might die. St. Bridget reproved me, saying encouragingly that death was the coward's refuge, sought only by those who had not the resolution to meet, endure, or overcome the trials of life. She exhorted me to courage, perseverance and self denial, saying that if I fought life's battle bravely, I would have my reward.

She changed all my clothes, and assisted me to put on a white dress and cape, and a white cap and veil. She then gave me a card of good behavior, embraced me for the last time, and led me out to the Bishop, who was waiting to conduct me to the chapel where the ceremony was to be performed.

I there met ten other little girls, who, like myself, were compelled to take upon themselves vows they did not understand, and thus, by an apparently voluntary act, consign themselves to slavery for life. They were all strangers to me, sent here, as I afterwards learned, from some nunnery in Ireland, where they had friends who were too solicitous for their welfare. The priests do not wish the nuns to see friends from the world, and they will frame almost any plausible excuse to prevent it. But when the friends become too urgent, as they sometimes do, and their inventive powers are taxed too severely, or if the task of furnishing 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.

These ceremonies concluded. I was taken to a small room, and a woman assisted me to change my clothes again, and put on the Grey Nunnery suit. This consisted of a grey dress and shoes, and a black cap. Each nunnery has a peculiar dress which every nun is required to wear. Thus, on meeting one of them, it is very easy to tell what establishment she belongs to, and a run-away is easily detected. On leaving the chapel, I was taken to the steamboat, with the other ten girls, accompanied by a priest. Our coffins were packed in cotton, and placed on the boat with us. On our arrival at Montreal, we found a priest and two nuns waiting for us to conduct us to the nunnery.