Paula the Waldensian | Page 2

this yard was, to say the least, forbidding in the extreme;
but the fertile fields on the other side of the house spread themselves
like a vast and beautiful green carpet, dotted here and there with little
villages, crowned with church spires and their corresponding belfries,
from which on a Sunday morning pealed out the cheerful call to prayer
and worship. The ancient convent long before our story begins had
been transformed into a lovely dwelling with an immense garden on
one side, edged by a dozen little brick houses that seemed so small that
they made us children think of certain doll-houses that we used to see
in the Paris magazines. They were known locally as the "Red
Cottages." A long avenue of ancient elms separated us from these
houses of our neighbors, and in front of the cottages stretched a line of
stone benches, where, in the shade of the great trees, the old men of the
village used to sit and recount to us tales of the days when the Convent
flourished. Some of these stories made us shiver. (Indeed, they had a
habit of straying into our dreams at night.)
The rest of the land around the Convent had, with the passing of the
years, fallen into the hands of the villagers themselves. Each one had a

small space for flowers in front and a vegetable garden behind.
Of course, our own garden covering the whole space in front of the Red
Cottages, was a much more pretentious affair with its deep well, its
many-colored kiosks, and its noisy bee-hives. In fact, it was in our eyes,
the most enchanting corner of the earth.
I don't remember all the details about the special thing that happened
one day, but I know that I shall never forget it to the end of my life.
We were at tea in the garden. Teresa, our old servant, was walking up
and down in her kitchen. She never seemed to have time to sit down to
eat Dear old Teresa! She always seemed like a mother to me, for we
had lost our own dear mother when I was still in the cradle.
My brother and I had quarrelled over a mere nothing, when we were
called in to tea by our father. Of course, we did not dare continue our
dispute openly in front of him, but we continued our war-like activities
by kicking each other under the table.
Louis was ten years old and I was nine. As he was older and a boy, he
of course, considered that he had the right to the last word. Now kicks
had replaced words; but as we were seated at quite a distance from one
another, we did not succeed in causing very great damage to each
other's shins. Notwithstanding this, I began to lose patience, and in
order to end the matter, knowing that Louis was not very courageous, I
leaned my chair as far inside as I could and let him have one terrific
kick. At this, his face changed color and my father now disturbed by
the extra noise of my kick, finally began to realize what was happening.
I do not know how matters would have terminated, if Teresa had not at
this moment come into the garden with a black-bordered letter in her
hand which she delivered to our father. He took it silently and opened it
as Teresa carried away the tea-pot.
I saw immediately by my father's expression that the letter carried
serious news, and I am sure Louis noticed it also for he completely
forgot to return my kick.

"Teresa!" called my father.
"All right, I'm coming," said that good lady.
"Read this, and tell me what you think of it," and my father handed the
letter to the old servant.
Teresa seated herself at the end of the table between Louis and me, and
with her head in her hand commenced to read--Teresa was not very
well-educated and she read the letter very slowly and half-aloud. "Who
wrote this?" was her first question.
"The Pastor of the village," replied my father.
"A minister!" exclaimed Teresa. "He's a mighty poor writer for a
minister, and no doubt his mother paid mighty well for his 'education.'"
My father smiled a bit sadly.
"You don't understand it, Teresa?"
"Yes, yes; I understand half of it, and I think I can guess at the other
half."
"Do you want me to help you?" offered Louis.
Teresa looked scornfully at Louis--
"You! I should say not! You don't care to help me in the kitchen or run
errands for me, and the only thing the matter with you now is
curiosity!"
That settled Louis, and Teresa went on with her reading. Bending her
great fat form more and