Sometimes she would be allowed to accompany Soeur
Lucie to the big kitchen, and assist in the grand compote-
making, which seemed to be going on at all seasons of the
year. There, sometimes helping, sometimes perched on her
favourite seat on the corner of the table, Madelon would
forget her sorrows for awhile in the contemplation of the old
farm-kitchen with its rough white-washed walls, decorated with
pots and pans, and shining kettles, its shelves with endless
rows of blue and white crockery, its great black rafters
crossing below the high-pitched ceiling leaving a gloomy
space, full of mystery to Madelon's imagination; and then,
below, the long white wooden table, the piles of fruit, the
busy figures of the nuns as they moved to and fro. Outside in
the courtyard the sun would be shining perhaps, the trees
would wave, and cast flickering shadows on Madelon, as she
sat, the pigeons would come fluttering and perching on the
window-sill, and Soeur Lucie, whilst paring, cutting, boiling,
skimming, would crone out for Madelon's benefit the old tales
she knew so well that she could almost have repeated them in
her sleep.
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