CHAPTER X.

"She shrank away from earth and solitude
To the sole refuge for the heart's worst pain:
Life had no ties - she turned her unto Heaven.

"Raised where the pine and hill o'erlook the sea,
Stands thy lone convent, fair St. Valerie:
It has an air of sadness, as just meet
For the wrung heart to find its best retreat."

L. E. L.

You know I always told you how it would be.
Common-place of Domestic Conversation.

Ir was a small room, lined with wainscoting of the black oak, richly carved with that imagery-half fantastic, half religious — which marked the works of our industrious and imaginative forefathers. The height was quite disproportioned to the size; for the eye could with difficulty trace the rich colouring and fine outline of a group of angels, painted by some artist who had left a work, though not a name, behind. The window was large; but what with

the branch of a huge cork-tree that passed across, and the heavy folds of the purple curtains a purple almost black—the light was nearly excluded.

On one side of the room was a large coffer, whose carving was worn smooth and shining with time; and on the other was a cumbrous book-case, filled with large and silver-clasped tomes. The only other articles of furniture were a small table, and a heavy, high-backed chair, covered with black serge. On the table lay an illuminated missal and a silver crucifix. The Abbess herself was seated in the chairpale, abstracted, and with features whose expression, in repose at least, was severe.

The door opened; a bright gleam of sunshine shot into the room, but darkened instantly as the portress admitted the visitor. The Abbess rose not from her seat, but motioned with her hand to the stool beside her.

"A stranger and a foreigner," said she, turning à gaze rather earnest than curious on her evidently embarrassed guest. "What dost thou seek from the servant of the Madonna ?"

A moment's silence intervened, which was broken by the stranger's kneeling beside her.

"I come for refuge." The voice, though

broken, was sweet; and the Italian correct, though with the accent of a foreign land.

"Our Lady never yet denied her protection to the unhappy," replied the Abbess, who saw at once that the rank of her suppliant placed her among those to whom assistance is most readily accorded; at the same time, caution might be requisite. "Your voice is sad, but sincere. Let me look upon your face."

Another moment of hesitation, when a tremulous hand removed the bonnet and veil from a countenance whose momentary blush subsided into marble paleness. With the ready recollection of one who sees but few objects for remembrance, the Abbess recognised the young Englishwoman who had so lately visited her

convent.

"I told you of the vanity of hope—have my words so soon proved their truth? What does a stranger whose home is afar-whose faith is not as our faith-want of Our Lady degli Dolori ?"

Emily clasped her hands passionately. "Peace calm-a refuge from a wide and weary world, in which my portion is but sorrow. Home, I have none;-kindred, mine are in the grave; no living creature will care for my

solitude. I ask but a brief sojourn, to turn my thoughts to Heaven, and to die."

"We have here rest for the weary — peace for the bruised and broken heart; but your belief is that of your heretical island you must have friends who will oppose your intent." "Friends! I have no friends; at least, none whose care extends beyond courtesy. I cannot argue on points of faith; but our God is the Bind me by what vow you please. I am rich-I am independent. Will you shelter me? save me from a troubled and evil world?"

same.

"It were a sin against Our Lady, did I not seek to save the soul she sends me. Come, daughter; henceforth we have but one shrine and one home."

Every individual has some peculiar taste. That of the superior of the Convent of la Madre degli Dolori was for authority. An only child, her sway in the parental house had been absolute, that over the Count Cimarozzo, her husband, even more so. His death- some ten years before, in embarrassed circumstances, leaving her very much at the mercy of a distant relative, who inherited title and estate, and had, moreover, a lady-ruler of his own-turned the haughty Countess's views to a cloister. Her

own resolute desire of advancement, aided by the family interest, soon placed her at the head of her convent. Without rival or opposition, it may be doubted whether the Sister Cassilda was not a much happier person than the Countess Cimarozzo.

To increase the wealth and power of her convent was the great object of her existence. The rich English convert was indeed a prize. To give her agitation a religious impulse-impress her imagination with some solemn ritual—were the first steps to be taken. That day Emily was kept in a state of powerful excitement. The Abbess asked her no questions; but spoke beautifully and touchingly on the calm of a soul devoted to Heaven, and on the many perils and sorrows of life. She bade her kneel at her side during the service of the day. The deep, solemn tones of the organ, mingled with sweet young voices, filled the chapel.

Emily was now in that mood to which aught of sacrifice is relief; and when-her head almost dizzy with previous agitation, a frame tremulous with exertion, her senses overpowered with music and the faint perfume-the Abbess bade her kneel, and record, with a vow and a sign, her resolve at the altar, the feverish and ex