as haughtily as before. Her favourite tirewoman, had, as an act of grace, been left for a season with her, and she came to her, and, as soon as they were alone, fell at the feet of her lady, now only Sister Mary, with an irrepressible and natural burst of indignation and of compassion. But the high-born damsel raised her in silence, and kissed her brow. There was in her eye a glassy stare, and a vacant agony, a kind of unconscious convulsion, in her smile, that spoke of something fearful within. But whatever she felt, she gave it no utterance. The very evil spirit, that would have maddened another, seemed to obey her. The poor damsel, who loved her mistress tenderly, with the love of a common mind, looked at her with astonishment, and could hardly believe what she saw. The Sister took no heed of her wonder, but gently dismissed her, and remained in her cell alone.

Whatever the secrets of that prison-house, they were sacred, and hidden from every eye, but that of God. Nothing was seen of Sister Mary until vespers, when she appeared in the chapel, and petitioned, after the conclusion of the service, that she might be allowed to remain, in prayer, before the high altar, through the night. The request was at once granted. It was no unusual thing, indeed; and in the case of one thus suddenly, for some mysterious reason, cut off from the world, it seemed natural to come unto the shrine of the Virgin, and there to pray for support and comfort. There could be no refuge for a bleeding heart like the love and pity of her, whose bosom had been pierced by pangs so great. So the Sister's prayer was accorded cheerfully, and she was left, at the altar, to commence her painful vigil, in communion only with the dead that slept below, and with

the Mother of God, who looked down upon her, with a smile of pity, from her niche above.

Then appeared to come upon her spirit that shadow, which the cross flings upon the bosoms of those vowed to the cloistered solitude of a religious life. The girl had departed from those walls, but the nun remained. She seldom spoke, and never complained. Her tirewoman visited her often, and was permitted to remain with her for hours in her cell, for the strict rules of the Order were tacitly remitted, in her favour. She could not be called haughty, nor was she reserved, but there was no fellowship between the other Sisters and herself, and, it may be unconsciously, she occupied a place, both in feeling and intellect, which they could not reach. She never mingled with them. Instead of the usual equality of the conventual life, when by chance they met her moving about, looking so proud, yet so woebegone withal, they made her a hurried reverence, and passed on. Her only occupation seemed to be the care of a rose-bush, said to have some miraculous properties, and consecrated to the Virgin. It was from this bush that the place was called Holy Vale. One of its flowers was deemed to have the power, if worn, to preserve its bearer from mortal sin. And one of its crimson buds was always borne upon her bosom, for the bush had the gift of perpetual spring, and blossomed through the entire year.

So passed away the months of her novitiate. Wintersuch as winter is in this land of the aloe, the myrtle, and the geranium-was melting before the smile of spring. The day was approaching when the irrevocable black veil was to be assumed. The demeanour of the novice was unchanged.

It was as cold, as formal, and as still as ever. Her faithful tirewoman spent with her the eve of the fatal day, and when Sister Mary had dismissed her from the cloister gate, after vespers, she asked permission to spend in the chapel the solemn night, that was to usher in for her as solemn a dawn. The Abbess gave the desired leave, with her blessing on the head of the fair nun, so soon to be affianced to heaven, by the last awful tie. She went alone, through the holy place, to the high altar, and there was seen, by those who casually observed her, like a prostrate statue, absorbed in an agony of prayer. There they parted from her, but, on the morrow, they sought her there in vain. She left no relic of her presence. They found no traces of her flight. One thing only showed that she had been lately near. By the rosebush of the Virgin was found a bough broken off, and thrown down upon the ground, one opening bud alone being taken from its stem. Save this slight indication of her taste, and of the tenderness of a crushed heart for even an inanimate thing, her fate and her history were a void. The wrath of the stern Earl was terrible, but it was as vain as the quiet lamentations of the sisterhood. She, whom they deemed a perjured nun, was gone, and, apparently, gone for ever. The solemn beauty of her pale countenance was missed for a time, but, as no tidings of the fugitive were received, the impression caused by her loss waxed fainter and yet more faint. The name of the fugitive was scarcely ever mentioned; her empty place was filled up by another; her memory was, as it were, a tale that is told.

Years glided along, and passed lightly, as time ever passes, over the community of Holy Vale. Yet still, even in a

religious society, the hand of the great leveller comes down, gathering, one by one, the human blossoms on the tree of life. The sisters were called from their simple duties, and left the grey walls for a home more lasting, but scarcely more silent or more sad. The stately Abbess laid down her life and her authority together, and bequeathed her mild sceptre to her successor. Those who had known Sister Mary, and had pondered tearfully over her disappearance, at the moment when they deemed her about to win an immortal crown, were removed from the scene. Two or three only, at an They spoke sometimes of

advanced age, still lingered on. the mystery of Sister Mary's flight, but all hope of clearing it up was gone. The register of the angel on high could alone solve the terrible problem. To earth, and to mortal eyes, it was, apparently, a sealed volume, to be opened only by a mightier hand than that of man.

So, however, it was not fated to be. The eve of Easter Tuesday had again come round, and had fallen late in the year, on exactly the same day as that on which Sister Mary had been lost to God and to them, as it seemed, for ever. The eve of the same Tuesday had once more brought its duties, and its religious observances; for a solemn mass was performed for her who had so unaccountably vanished, and Heaven was entreated for her. It was observed that the rose-bush put forth its earliest and choicest blossoms, in loving profusion. A spirit of peace, and a sacred blessing, appeared to be floating over the hallowed spot. During vespers, a sweet voice seemed to mingle with the choir, as though an angel sang.

Next morning the great doors of the chapel were thrown

open, as was usual on occasions of state, for matins. The Abbess entered, at the head of her train, but the building was not untenanted. It was already occupied by One, upon whom was impressed the grandeur, and the sanctity, conferred by an immortal power from its contact with that which is mortal. Death, that consecrates by its touch, and hallows even while it slays, had been busy there.

A form lay upon the highest step, before the great altar, its hands clasped upon its bosom in the attitude of prayer, and so marble-like and motionless that it might have been deemed an effigy on a tomb. There was no mistaking its dread repose, nor its rigid limbs, nor the stony expression of its upturned face. Death was frozen in its lineaments of rare beauty, but the expression was as calm and child-like as though they were but composed in sleep, and a sweet smile played about the lips, fixed there, perhaps, by the guardian angel, that bore away the departing spirit from a frame so fair. The form was one of early womanhood, and was clothed in the dress of a novice of the house. Upon the cold bosom, and on the heart that throbbed no more with life, was placed a rose bud, apparently long gathered, but yet as fresh as though newly plucked from its stem. The sisters crowded round the figure, sleeping in its awful loveliness. The two aged nuns recognised it at once. It was their lost sister, Mary.

They buried her where she lay. It was vain to ask by what miracle she had been preserved and given back, in her pure and perfect innocence, for by her outward beauty they might be assured of that within. Perhaps the rose bud had guarded her from temptation, and had imparted to her