Already, as if in
anticipation of the world's questionings, she was asking herself,
"Who am I? What am I?"
The next morning the sisters du Sacre Coeur filed into the
Cathedral at High Mass, and bent devout knees at the general
confession. "Confiteor Deo omnipotenti," murmured the priest;
and tremblingly one little sister followed the words, "Je
confesse a Dieu, tout puissant--que j'ai beaucoup peche par
pensees--c'est ma faute--c'est ma faute--c'est ma tres grande
faute."
The organ pealed forth as mass ended, the throng slowly filed
out, and the sisters paced through the courtway back into the
brown convent walls. One paused at the entrance, and gazed with
swift longing eyes in the direction of narrow, squalid Chartres
Street, then, with a gulping sob, followed the rest, and vanished
behind the heavy door.
THE PRALINE WOMAN
The praline woman sits by the side of the Archbishop's quaint
little old chapel on Royal Street, and slowly waves her latanier
fan over the pink and brown wares.
"Pralines, pralines. Ah, ma'amzelle, you buy? S'il vous plait,
ma'amzelle, ces pralines, dey be fine, ver' fresh.
"Mais non, maman, you are not sure?
"Sho', chile, ma bebe, ma petite, she put dese up hissef. He's
hans' so small, ma'amzelle, lak you's, mais brune. She put dese
up dis morn'. You tak' none? No husban' fo' you den!
"Ah, ma petite, you tak'? Cinq sous, bebe, may le bon Dieu keep
you good!
"Mais oui, madame, I know you etranger.
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