er and delight, was between them; and she did not feel that she could speak of it. It seemed, indeed, as if she would need a special language to do so.
"I have met him but twice," she thought; "and it is as if I had a new, strange, exquisite life. Ought I tell my mother? But how can I? I have no words to explain--I do not understand--I thought it would break my heart to leave the good Sisters and my studies, and the days so calm and holy; and now--I do not even wish to go back. Sister Langaard told me it would be so if I let the world come into my soul--Alas! if I should be growing wicked!"
The thought made her start; she hastened her steps towards the large entrance door, and as she approached it a negro in a fine livery of blue and white threw the door wide open for her. Answering his bow with a kind word, she turned quickly out of the hall, into a parlour full of sunshine. A lady sat there hemstitching a damask napkin; a lady of dainty plainness, with a face full of graven experiences and mel