ed up in his own mind rather than addressing his companion; and, seeing at a glance that she had not understood a word of what he had been saying, he smilingly adapted his talk to her comprehension.

"I heard a story once," he said, 'of a careful mother who was going away from home to spend the day. Before starting, she called her children about her, and, after telling them of certain things which they were not to do, she concluded in this wise: And don't you go up into the back attic, to the dark corner behind the big chimney, and take up a loose board in the floor, and pull out a bag of dry beans there is there, and get beans in your noses.' Then she went away, having forbidden every evil which she could imagine might happen to them. When she came home at night, every child had a bean up its nose. Don't you see she had better not have said any thing about those beans? The children didn't know where they were. No; if you want to keep any one from evil, talk to him of what is good. The more you look at evil, even to abuse it, the less shocking it is to you. The more you talk about it, the more people will do it. Sometimes it must be spoken of; but beware of saying too much. Do you know when darkness appears darkest ? When you have been looking at light. Therefore, my lady, say all that is pleasant to this young man, and try to forget that there ever was anything unpleasant."

Mrs. Ferrier was not one to oppose the earnestly expressed wish of a clergyman, and, at this time, all F. Chevreuse's people felt an unusual desire to show him their love and obedience. Besides, she was rather proud of having been considered so implacable that no one but a priest could influence her, and of being VOL. XVII.-51

able to say, in defence of her change of plan: "I did it for the sake of F. Chevreuse." She even boasted a little of this intercession, and took care it should be known that the church had begged her to be lenient, and had for a moment anxiously awaited her decision.

"Besides," she would add, "he takes a good deal more pains to be pleasant now."

Lawrence, indeed, took no such pains, and, perhaps, liked Annette's mother less than ever. The only change was in herself. She had, by being civil to him, rendered it possi ble for him to be agreeable. When he was spoken of slightingly, she had insulted him; when he was praised to her, she conciliated. It was not necessary that there should be any change in him.

Annette, too, had taken his cause up with a high hand. The passion of love, which had sometimes made her timid in speaking of him, was unconsciously giving place to a passion of pity, which made her fearless. Woe to the servant who was dilatory in waiting on Mr. Gerald, or lacking in any sign of respect for him. He was consulted about everything. Not a curtain, nor chair, nor spoon could be bought till he had· approved. A cool "I will see what Lawrence thinks of it," was enough. to postpone a decision on any subject. "He has taste, and we have nothing but money." If the phrase. is not a contradiction, it might be said that she abased herself haughtily in order to exalt him. If they had company to dinner, Lawrence must glance over the list of dishes; if a new plant arrived, he must advise where it should be set; if a stranger came to town, it was for Lawrence to decide whether the Ferriers should show him hospitality.

"I think our rehearsal may as well

be also a little garden-party," Annette said to him. "We need scarcely any practice, nothing to speak of, everything went so well the last time."

She was tying on her bonnet before a mirror in the drawing room, and Lawrence stood by a window, hat in hand, looking out at the carriage waiting at the gate. He did not seem to have heard her. "I should only ask a few persons who will be sure to go to the concert and help along," she continued, twirling lightly about to see if the voluminous folds of her black silk train fell properly. She wanted Lawrence to notice her, for she was looking uncommonly well. Black was becoming to her; and the delicate lavender gloves, and bunch of scarlet geranium-flowers half lost in lace just behind her left ear, gave precisely the touch of color that was needed. But he stood immovable, watching the horses, perhaps, or watching nothing. Seeing him so abstracted, she looked at him a moment, remembering an old story she had read of Apollo apprenticed to a swine-herd. Here was one, she thought, who might have graced Olympus, yet who had been bound down to poverty, and labor, and disappointment. His pale and melancholy face showed that he might be mourning even now his ignominious captivity. Thank God, she could help him! He should not always be so sorrowful.

He moved slightly, without looking toward her, aware of her silence, though he had not noticed her speech. She checked, with an effort, the impulse to go to him with some affectionate inquiry, and went on with what she had been saying. "We need the editors, of course, and I can ask Dr. Porson to bring Mr. Sales. They say he is very clever, and will bring The Aurora up again.

They will give us puffs, you know. If I send the doctor a note this afternoon, he will tell Mr. Sales this evening, and he can write a nice little report of the rehearsal before he comes to it, and have it out tomorrow morning."

"Are your ready ?" asked Lawrence, turning round from the window.

"All but this." She gave him a little gold glove-buttoner, and held out her hand.

"By the way," she said suddenly, "have you heard the story about Mr. Schöninger ?"

Lawrence let slip the tiny button he had just caught, and stared at her in silence. Perhaps he remembered something that Jane, the priest's housekeeper, had charged him not to tell.

"Such a romantic story!" she said, smiling at having won his attention. "I forgot to tell you. They say that he has a lawsuit going on in England about an immense property to which he is the rightful heir. It is from some very distant relative who left Germany for England a hundred years ago. He has no personal acquaintance with any of the family there now; but ten years ago. he learned that the heirs had died out leaving him nearest to the estate. He was then in Germany, and had a little property, on which he lived like a gentleman. He spent every dollar he had in the effort to obtain his rights, but did not succeed. Neither did he fail; but more money was needed. And that's the reason why he came to this country and became a music-teacher, and why he lives so plainly, and works all the time. Lily Carthusen told me she heard that he sent money to England every quarter, and that all his earnings go into that lawsuit."

"Lily Carthusen knows a great

"It's the old serpent in the tree that makes it shaky."

Well, I don't believe a word of it," he said. "Schöninger is a fine fellow; and people imagine there is some mystery about him, simply because he won't tell everybody his business, and who his grandfather and grandmother were. There are thousands of persons in this city who, if you should keep one room in your house locked, would believe that it was full of stolen goods."

They were going out through the door now, and Annette assumed a bright smile. No one must see her looking mortified or sad, least of all when she was with Lawrence. She stepped lightly into the carriage, and gave her order with the air of one anticipating a charming drive. "To the convent, Jack, straight through the town, and slowly."

Which meant that they intended to have some conversation, and were not unwilling to be observed.

"I always like to see the sisters when I am out of tune," Miss Ferrier said. "They are so soothing and cheerful. Besides, they are brave. They fear nothing. They are not always quaking, as people in the world are. They have the courage of children who know that they will be taken care of. I always feel stronger after being with them. Not that I am usually timid, though. I think I have more courage than you, Lawrence."

She smiled playfully, giving her true words the air of a jest.

He looked straight ahead, and ignored the jest. "You have a clear conscience, that is the reason," he

"It is very true," she said calmly, after a moment's consideration. "I do not believe I ever did anything wicked."

"As a rule, I don't like religious people," the young man observed; "but I've no objection to any of the nuns. The fact that they will wear unbecoming dresses and cut off their hair proves them sincere. It's the strongest proof a good-looking woman could give. You needn't laugh, Annette. Just think a minute, and you'll find it is so. Now, look at that little Anita I saw up there once. She's as pink and white as the inside of a sea-shell, and her hair must be a yard long, and beautiful hair at that. Yet she is going to have those braids cut off, and hide her face That means under a black bonnet. something. I only hope she may not be sorry when it is too late. I'd like to talk with her. Ask to see her to-day, won't you?"

Annette's answer was very gravely uttered. "6 Certainly, if you wish," she said. "But you will not have much opportunity for conversation with her."

He roused himself, just beginning to take some interest in their talk. Get "You can manage it, Annette. her singing for me, then take Sister Cecilia off out of the room."

He spoke coaxingly, and with a faint smile; but she did not lift her eyes. "You know there must be no trifling with such a person, Lawrence. Why need you wish to speak to Anita ? Is it impossible for you to see an interesting girl without trying to captivate her? You need not be proud of such success."

He threw himself back on the cushions again. "Oh! if you are jealous, there is no more to be said about it."

As she remained silent, he presently stole a questioning glance into her face, and, seeing the cloud on it, smiled again. It always amused him to see any evidence of his power over women, and no proof could be stronger than the sight of their pain. "Don't be silly now, Ninon!" he said softly. "You know I don't mean to trifle nor flirt, but only to satisfy my curiosity. I never spoke to a young vestal like that, and I would like to know what sort of language they use. Be good, dear!"

That coaxing voice could still make her smile, though it could no longer cheat her into delight. She looked at him indulgently, as one looks at a spoilt child whom one has no desire to reprove, yet sighs over. "I will do what I can, Lawrence; but you must be careful not to behave so that the sisters will wish to exclude you in future."

"That's a good girl!"

a chair in which were a pail of steaming water and a bar of soap. Sister Bernadette, the chief musicteacher, held the door-knob in one hand, while with the other she was vigorously scouring the panels. Her sleeves were rolled up to the shoul ders, a large apron covered her from chin to slipper, and her veil was re moved. As she scoured, her full, sweet face was uplifted, and her large blue eyes watched the success of her labor with perfect earnestness and good-will.

A burst of laughter revealed the spectators to her. Mr. Gerald stood just within the room, bowing profoundly, with gravity and some diffidence, but the two ladies were thoroughly amused.

"Would you not think," cried Sister Cecilia, "that she expected to see that dingy old door turn between her hands into the great pearl of the New Jerusalem gate? You cer

66

Yes, I like to see that kind of religion," he resumed. "But I hate a gilt-edged piety. I despise those people who are so nice that they call the devil the D., you know,' and whose religion is all promenadedress and genuflections. I suspect them. I was talking the other day with a lady who said something about the D., you know,' and I answered, 'No, I don't know. What do you mean?' She had to say it; and I haven't a doubt she always says it when she is angry. Bah !"

They had reached the gate, and, seeing no one, alighted and left the carriage there. But Sister Cecilia met them at the entrance, her welcoming smile like a benediction.

As they entered the parlor, they surprised a little domestic tableau. The door leading to an inner room was partly open, and braced against

dette."

Sister Bernadette's blush was but momentary, only the rapid color of surprise that faded away in dimples as she smiled. Her sleeves were pulled down and her veil snatched on in 2 trice, and she went to meet their visitors with an air that would have adorned a drawing-room.

"Sister is a witch," she said. "I was thinking of the gates of the New Jerusalem, though not expecting a miracle."

This lady, whom we find scrubbing a door, with her sleeves rolled up. was the child of wealth and gentie blood. She had beauty, talents, and culture, and her life had been without a cloud, save those light ones that only enhance the surrounding brightness. Yet she had turned away from the world, not in bitterness and disappointment, nor because it was to her unbeautiful, but because its

remind her of the infinite loveliness. She had not Sister Cecilia's enthusiasm; but her heart was a fountain for ever full of love, and cheerfulness, and a gentle courage. She seemed to live in a sunny, spiritual calm above the storms of life.

After a few graceful words, she took leave, promising to send Anita to them. Miss Ferrier wished Mr. Gerald to hear the girl play on the piano, and Miss Ferrier was a benefactor to their community, and, therefore, a person to be obliged. Otherwise they might not have thought it profitable for the child to receive a morning-call from fashionable people who were neither related to nor intimate with her.

Anita came in presently, as a moonbeam comes in when you lift the curtain at night. Softly luminous and without sound, it is there. This girl was rather small and dark-haired, and had a dazzling fairness of complexion to which her simple brown dress was in admirable contrast. Her eyes were blue and almost always downcast, as if she would wish to hide that full, unsteady radiance that shone out through them. Nothing could have been more charming than her mannerti:mid

without awkwardness, and showing that innocent reserve of a child which springs neither from fear nor distrust. She met Miss Ferrier sweetly, but was not the first to extend her hand; and Annette's kiss, to which she only submitted, left a red spot on her cheek which lingered for some time after. She was one of those sensitive flowers that shrink from the lightest touch. No love was delicate enough for her except that ineffable love of the "Spouse of virgins."

Lawrence Gerald watched her with enchantment. The immense gravity

had made him smile. It was a new study for him. How sunburnt and hackneyed Annette seemed beside this fair little cloistered snowdrop! Poor Annette, with her grieved and disappointed heart, which surely had not chosen the rough ways of the world, and would gladly have been loved and shielded as this girl had been, received scant charity from the man whose sole hope she was. So are our misfortunes imputed to us as crimes!

Anita played admirably on the piano, turning the music for herself. After her first gentle refusal of his help, Lawrence did not venture to press the matter, fearing to alarm her timidity; but he seated himself near, and, affecting not to observe her, watched every movement.

After the first piece, Miss Ferrier and Sister Cecilia, seated by a distant window, began to talk in whispers about various business affairs; but as the gentleman by the piano was listening, and pushed toward her a second sheet of music when she laid the first aside, the performer did not rise.

"Yes," Sister Cecilia was saying, her eyes fixed on a rough sofa the nuns had themselves stuffed cushions for, "I think there is something upstairs that will do to cover it. We have several large packages that have not been opened. They were sent here the day after Mother Chevreuse died, and we have had no heart to touch them since. There are some shawls, and blankets, and quilts that Mrs. Macon gathered for us from any one who would give. I am sure we shall find something there that will do very well.".

"And now sing for me," Lawrence said gently, as Anita ended her second piece. "I am sure you sing. You . . . He checked himself there, not daring to finish his speech.