her weep, and he wept for sympathy. Both were silent, agitated, uneasy, and happy. But the night was fine, the moon shed its softest light, the ripple of the stream had a harmony of its own, the light breeze cooled their cheeks, the sail bent over them like the wing of an invisible being; they were young, they loved, it was impossible that joy should not revive in their hearts. 66 Thanks, Christine, thanks!" exclaimed Herbert, "thanks a thousand times for so much devotedness, for such confidence and love! Oh how beautiful will life now appear! We are united forever!" At last night came. A lamp replaced the fading day-light. The window was deserted for the table. William and Karl Van Amberg came in. The former took a book; his brother busied himself with commercial calculations. The lamp gave a dull light; all was silent, sad, and monotonous in the apartment. The clock slowly told the succeeding hours. When its hammer struck ten, there was a movement round the table; books were shut, work was folded. Karl Von Amberg rose; his two eldest daughters approached him, and he kissed their foreheads in silence. Christine, no longer a captive, but still in disgrace, bowed herself before her father. Uncle William, grown drowsy over "Forever!" repeated Christine, her tears flowhis book, put up his spectacles, muttering a "good-ing afresh. For the first time she felt that great night." The family left the parlor, and the three happiness, like great grief, expresses itself by tears. sisters ascended the wooden staircase. At her Her hand in Herbert's, her eyes raised to heaven, chamber door, Christine felt a tightness at her she gazed upon bright stars and fleecy clouds, sole heart. She turned and looked after her sisters. and silent witnesses of her happiness. Presently "Good-night, Wilhelmina! good-night, Maria!" she was roused from this sweet reverie. The sisters turned their heads. By the faint light of their tapers Christine saw them smile and kiss their hands to her. Then they entered their rooms without speaking. Christine found herself alone. She opened her window; the night was calm; at intervals clouds flitted across the moon, veiling its brightness. Christine made no preparations for departure; she only took her mother's rosary, and the blue ribbon so long attached to the guitar; then she wrapped herself in her black mantle and sat down by the window. Her heart beat quick, but no distinct thought agitated her mind. She trembled without terror; her eyes were tearful, but she felt no regret. For her, the hour was rather solemn than sad; the struggle was over, and she was irrevocably decided. At last midnight came; each stroke of the clock thrilled Christine's heart; for an instant she stood still, summoning strength and courage; then, turning towards the interior of the room "Adieu, my mother!" she whispered. Many living creatures dwelt under that roof. It seemed to Christine as if she left her only who was no longer there. "Adieu, my mother!" she repeated. Then she stepped out of the window; a trellis, twined with creepers, covered the wall. With light foot and steady hand, Christine descended, aiding herself by the branches, and pausing when they cracked under her tread or grasp. The stillness was so complete that the slightest sound assumed importance. Christine's heart beat violently; at last she reached the ground, raised her head, and looked at the house. Her father's window was still lighted. Again she shuddered with apprehension; then, feeling more courage for a minute's daring than for half an hour's precautions, she darted across the meadow and arrived breathless at the clump of willows. Before plunging into it, she again looked round. All was quiet and deserted; she breathed more freely and disappeared amongst the branches. Leaning upon the old tree, the witness of her former rendezvous, she whispered, so softly that none but a lover could hear, Herbert, are you there?" 66 "See there, Herbert!" she exclaimed; "the sail droops along the mast, the wind has fallen, we do not advance." Herbert took the oars, and the boat cut rapidly through the water. Wrapped in her mantle, Christine sat opposite, and smiled upon him. Onwards flew the boat, a track of foam in its wake. Daylight was still distant; all things favored the fugitives. Again Christine broke silence. 66 Herbert, dear Herbert, do you hear nothing?" Herbert ceased to row, and listened. "I hear nothing," he said, "save the plash of the river against its banks." He resumed the oars; again the boat moved rapidly forward. Christine was pale; half risen from her seat, her head turned back, she strove to see, but the darkness was too great. "Be tranquil, best beloved," said Herbert with a smile. "Fear creates sounds. All is still." Herbert," cried Christine, this time starting up in the boat, I am not mistaken! I hear oars behind us pause not to listen * row, for Heaven's love, row!" Her terror was so great, she seemed so sure of what she said, that Herbert obeyed in silence, and a sensation of alarm chilled his heart. Christine seated herself at his feet. 66 * "We are pursued!" she said; "the noise of your own oars alone prevented your hearing. A boat follows us." 66 If it be so," Herbert cried, "what matter! That boat does not bear Christine, is not guided by a man who defends his life, his happiness, his love. My arm will weary his, his bark will not overtake mine." And Herbert redoubled his efforts. The veins of his arms swelled to bursting; his forehead was covered with sweat-drops. The skiff clove the waters as though impelled by wings. Christine remained crouched at the young man's feet, pressing herself against him, as to seek refuge. Other oars, wielded by stalwart arms, now struck the water not far from Herbert's boat. The young student heard the sound; he bent over his oars and made desperate efforts. But he felt his strength failing; as he rowed he looked with agony at A cautious oar skimmed the water; a well Christine; no one spoke, only the noise of the two known voice replied. The boat approached the boats interrupted the silence. Around, all was willow; the young student stood up and held out calm and serene as when the fugitives set out. his arms to Christine, who leaped lightly into the But the soul of the young girl had passed from life skiff. In an instant, they were out of the willow- to death; her eyes, gleaming with a wild fire, folshaded inlet; in another, the sail-the signal of their loves-was hoisted to the breeze; the bark sped swiftly over the water, and Herbert, scarce daring to believe his happiness, was seated at Christine's feet. His hand sought hers; he heard lowed with increased terror each movement of Herbert's; she saw by the suffering expression of his countenance, that little hope of escape remained. Still he rowed with the energy of despair; but the fatal bark drew nearer, its shadow was seen upon the water, it followed hard in the foamy track of Herbert's boat. Christine stood up and looked back; just then the moon shone out, casting its light full upon the pale, passionless features of M. Van Amberg. Christine uttered a piercing cry. "My father!" she cried, "Herbert, 't is my father!" Herbert also had recognized his pursuer. The youth had lived too long in Karl Van Amberg's house, not to have experienced the strange kind of fascination which that man exercised over all around him. Darkness had passed away to reveal to the fugitives the father, master, and judge! Stop, Herbert!" cried Christine, "we are lost; escape is impossible! Do you not see my father?" "Let me row!" replied Herbert, disengaging himself from Christine, who had seized his arm. He gave so violent a pull with the oars, that the little boat bounded out of the water and seemed to gain a little on its pursuer. "Herbert," cried Christine, "I tell you we are lost! 'Tis my father, and resistance is useless! God will not work a miracle in our favor! Herbert, I will not return to my father's house! Let us die together, dear Herbert!" And Christine threw herself into her lover's arms. The oars fell from the young man's hands; with a cry of anguish he pressed Christine convulsively on his heart. For a single instant he thought of obeying her, and of plunging with her into the dark tide beneath; but Herbert had a noble heart, and he repelled the temptation of despair. The next moment a violent shock made the boat quiver, and M. Van Amberg stepped into it. Instinctively, Herbert clasped Christine more tightly, and retreated; as if his strength could withhold her from her father; as if, in that little boat, he could retreat far enough not to be overtaken. With a vigorous arm, M. Van Amberg seized Christine, whose slender form bent like a reed over his shoulder. "Have mercy on her!" cried the despairing Herbert; "I alone am guilty! Punish her not, and I promise to depart, to renounce her! Pity, sir, pity for Christine!" He spoke to a deaf and silent statue. Wresting Christine's hand from the student's grasp, M. Van Amberg stepped back into his boat and pushed Herbert's violently with his foot. Yielding to the impulse, the boats separated; one was pulled swiftly up the river, whilst the other, abandoned to itself, was swept by the current in a contrary direction. Erect on the prow of his bark, his head thrown back, his arms folded on his breast, M. Van Amberg fixed a terrible look upon Herbert, and then disappeared in the darkness. All was over. The father had taken his daughter, and no human power could henceforward tear her from his arms. Within eight days from this fatal night, the gates of a convent closed upon Christine Van Amberg. On the frontier of Belgium, on the summit of a hill, stands a large white building of irregular architecture, a confused mass of walls, roofs, angles, and platforms. At the foot of the hill is a village, whose inhabitants behold with a feeling of respect the edifice towering above their humble dwellings. For there is seen the belfry of a church, and thence is heard unceasingly the sound of pious bells, proclaiming afar that on the mountain's summit a few devout souls pray to God for all men. The building is a convent; the poor and the sick well know the path leading to the hospitable threshold of the Sisters of the Visitation. To this convent was Christine sent. To this austere dwelling, the abode of silence and selfdenial, was she, the young, the beautiful, the loving, pitilessly consigned. It was as though a gravestone had suddenly closed over her head. With her, the superior of the convent received the following letter: "MADAME LA SUPERIEURE-I send you your niece, Christine Van Amberg, and beg you to oblige me by keeping her with you. I intend her to embrace a religious life; employ the influence of your wise counsels to predispose her to it. Her misconduct compels me to exclude her my house; she requires restraint and watching, such as are only to be found in a convent. Be pleased, dear and respected kinswoman, to receive her under your roof; the best wish that can be formed for her is that she may make up her mind to remain there forever. Should she inquire concerning a young man named Herbert, you may inform her that he has sailed to Batavia, whence he will proceed to our most remote establishments. "I am with respect, Madame la Supérieure, your kinsman and friend, "KARL VAN AMBERG." Five years had now elapsed since the date of this letter, when one day the convent gate opened to admit a stranger, who craved to speak with the superior. The stranger was an old man; a staff sustained his feeble steps. Whilst waiting in the parlor, he looked about him with surprise and emotion, and several times he passed his hand across his eyes as if to brush away a tear. "Poor, poor child!" he muttered. When the superior appeared behind the grating, he advanced quickly towards her. "the "I am William Van Amberg," he said, brother of Karl Van Amberg. I come, madame, to fetch Christine, his daughter and my niece." "You come very late," replied the superior; "sister Martha-Mary is on the eve of pronouncing her vows. "Martha-Mary!-I do not know the name"said William Van Amberg; "I seek Christinemy niece Christine." "Christine Van Amberg, now sister MarthaMary, is about to take the veil." "Christine a nun! Oh, impossible! Madame, they have broken the child's heart; from despair only would she take the veil; they have been cruel, they have tortured her; but I bring her liberty and the certainty of happiness-permission to marry him she loves. Let me speak to her, and she will quickly follow." "Speak to her, then; and let her depart if such be her will." "You are free, and Herbert waits to lead you to the altar!" His heart beat as it had never beaten in the best days of his youth; he counted the minutes and kept his eyes fixed upon the little door through which Christine was to come. He could not fold her in his arms, the grating prevented it, but at least he should see and hear her. Suddenly all his blood rushed to his heart, for the hinges creaked and the door opened. A novice, clothed in white, slowly advanced; he looked at her, started back, hesitated, and exclaimed: "Oh God! is that Christine ?" William had cherished in his heart the memory of a bright-eyed, sunburnt girl, alert and lively, quick and decided in her movements, running more often than she walked, like the graceful roe that loves the mountain steeps. He beheld a tall young woman, white and colorless as the robes that shrouded her; her hair concealed under a thick linen band, her slender form scarcely to be distinguished beneath the heavy folds of her woollen vestments. Her movements were slow, her black eyes veiled by an indescribable languor; a profound calm was the characteristic of her whole being-a calm so great, that it resembled absence of life. One might have thought her eyes looked without seeing, that her lips could not open to speak, that her ears listened without hearing. Sister MarthaMary was beautiful, but her beauty was not of the earth-it was the beauty of infinite repose-of a calm that nothing could disturb. The old man was touched to the bottom of his soul; the words expired on his lips, and he extended his hands towards Christine. On beholding her uncle, Martha-Mary endeavored to smile, but moved not, and said nothing. "Oh my child!" cried William at last, "how you must suffer here!" Martha-Mary gently shook her head, and the tranquil look she fixed upon her uncle, protested against his supposition. "Is it possible that five years have thus changed my Christine? My heart recognizes you, my child, not my eyes! They have compelled you to great austerities, severe privations?" "No." happy. I implored permission to marry you to Herbert. You are no longer a rich heiress your father gone, you need protection, and that of an old man cannot long avail you. In short, your father has agreed to all I asked; he sends you, as a farewell gift, your liberty and his consent to your marriage Christine! you are free, and Herbert awaits his bride !" The long drapery of the novice was slightly agitated, as if the limbs it covered trembled; she remained some seconds without speaking, and then replied, "It is too late! I am the affianced of the Lord!" William uttered a cry of grief, and looked with alarm at the pale, calm girl who stood immovable before him. "Christine!" he cried, "you no longer love Herbert?" "I am the affianced of the Lord!" repeated the novice, her hands crossed upon her breast, her eyes raised to heaven. "Oh my God! my God!" cried William, weeping bitterly, “my brother has killed his child! Her soul has been sad even unto death! Poor victim of our severity, tell me, Christine, tell me, what has passed within you, since your abode here?" "I saw others pray, and I prayed also. There was a great stillness, and I was silent; none wept, and I dried my tears; a something, at first cold, then soothing, enveloped my soul. The voice of God made itself heard to me, and I listened! I loved the Lord, and gave myself to him." Then, as if fatigued with speaking so much, Martha-Mary relapsed into silence, and into that absorbing meditation which rendered her insensible to surrounding things. Just then a bell tolled. The novice started, and her eyes sparkled. "God calls me !" she said, "I go to pray!" "Christine! my daughter, will you leave me thus?" "Hear you not the bell? It is the hour of prayer.” "But, Christine, dearest child, I came to take you hence." "I shall never leave these walls!" said Martha "A cruel bondage has weighed heavily upon Mary, gliding slowly away. As she opened the you?" "No." "You have been ill then ?" "No." parlor door, she turned towards William; her eyes fixed upon him with a sad and sweet expression; her lips moved, as if to send him a kiss; then she disappeared. William made no attempt to detain "Your poor heart has suffered too much, and has her; his head was pressed against the grating, and broken. You have shed many tears?" "I remember no longer." "Christine, Christine, do you live? or has the shade of Annunciata risen from the grave? Oh my child! in seeing you, I seem to see her corpse, extended on the bed of death!" big tears chased each other down his cheeks. How long he remained thus plunged in mournful reflection, he noted not. He was roused by the voice of the superior, who seated herself, wrapped in her black robes, on the other side of the grating. "I foresaw your grief," she said. "Our sister Martha-Mary refuses to follow you." With a despairing look, William answered the nun. Martha-Mary raised her large eyes to heaven; she joined her hands, and murmured," My mother!" "Christine, speak to me! weep with me! you frighten me by your calm and silence "Alas! alas!" he said, "the child I so dearly Ah! in my trouble and emotion, I have as yet ex-loved met me without joy, and left me without regret. plained nothing Listen my brother "Listen, my son," resumed the superior; "lisKarl, by the failure of a partner, suddenly found ten to me.-Five years ago, there came to this conhis whole fortune compromised. To avoid total vent a young girl overwhelmed with grief and sunk ruin he was obliged to embark immediately for the in terrible despair; her entrance here was to her colonies. He set sail, expecting to return in a few a descent into the tomb. During one entire year, years; but his affairs prolong his absence, and his none saw her but with tears on her face. Only return is indefinitely postponed. His two eldest God knows how many tears the eyes must shed, daughters are with him. To me, who am too old before a broken spirit regains calm and resignation; to follow him, too old to remain alone, he has given man cannot count them. This young girl suffered Christine. I would not accept the precious charge much; in vain we implored pardon for her, in vain my child, without the possibility of rendering you we summoned her family to her relief. She * might say, as it is written in the psalm-'I am | road, she closed her eyes and seemed to sleep. weary with my groaning: mine eye is consumed be- During the journey, William endeavored in vain to cause of grief. What could we do, save pray for make her converse; she had forgotten how to exher, since none would receive her back! press her thoughts. When compelled to reply, fatigue overwhelmed her; her whole existence was concentrated in her soul, and detached entirely from the external world. At intervals, she would say to herself: "How long the morning is! Nothing marks the hours; I have not heard a single bell to-day!" "Alas!" cried William, " your letters never reached us. My brother was beyond sea; and I, having then no hope of changing his determination, I had quitted his empty and melancholy home." "Man abandoned her," continued the superior, "but God looked upon his servant, and comforted At last they reached the red house, and the carher soul. If he does not see fit to restore strength riage drove into the court, where the grass grew to her body, exhausted by suffering-His will be between the stones. Gothon came out to receive done! Perhaps it would now be wise and gen-them, and Martha-Mary, leaning on her uncle's arm, erous to leave her to that love of God which she entered the parlor where the family of Van Amberg has attained after so many tears; perhaps it would had so often assembled. The room was deserted be prudent to spare her fresh shocks." and cold; no books or work gave it the look of habitation; abandoned by its last occupants, it awaited new ones. Christine slowly traversed this well-known apartment, and sat down upon a chair near the window. It was there her mother had sat for twenty years; there had her childhood passed at the knees of Annunciata. "No! no!" interrupted William, "I cannot give up, even to God, this last relic of my family, the sole prop of my old age. I will try every means to bring back her heart to its early sentiments. Give me Christine for a few days only. Let me conduct her to the place of her birth, to the scenes where she loved. She is deaf to my entreaties, but she will obey an order from you; bid her return for a while beneath her father's roof? Should she still wish it, after this last attempt, I will restore her hither." "Take her with you, my son," replied the superior, "I will bid her follow. If God has indeed spoken to her soul, no worldly voice will move her. If it be otherwise, may she return no more to the cloister, but be blessed wherever she goes! Adieu, my son; the peace of the Lord be with you!" Hope revived in the heart of William Van Amberg; it seemed to him as if—the convent threshold once passed-Christine would revert to her former character, her youth and love. He believed he was about to remove his beloved child forever from those gloomy walls, and with painful impatience he awaited her coming. Soon a light step was heard in the corridor; William threw open the door, Christine was there, and no grating now separated her from her uncle. "My beloved Christine!" exclaimed William, "at last, then, you are restored to me; at last I can press you to my heart! Come, we will return to our own country, and revisit the house where we all dwelt together." Sister Martha-Mary was still paler than at her first interview with William. If any expression was discernible upon that calm countenance, it was one of sadness. She allowed herself to be taken by the hand and conducted to the convent gate; but when the gate was opened, and, passing into the open air, she encountered the broad daylight and the fresh breeze, she tottered and leaned for support against the wall. Just then the sun rent the clouds, and threw its golden beams on plain and mountain; the air was clear and transparent, and the flat and monotonous horizon acquired beauty from the burst of light. "See, my daughter," said William, "see how lovely the earth looks! How soft is the air we breathe! How good it is to be free, and to move towards that immense horizon!" "Oh, my dear uncle !" replied the novice," how beautiful are the heavens! See how the sun shines above our heads! It is in heaven that his glory should be admired! His rays are already dim and feeble when they touch the earth!" William led Christine to a carriage; they got in, and the horses set off. Long did the gaze of the novice remain fixed on her convent's walls; when these were hidden from her by the windings of the William opened the window, showed her the meadow, the willows, and the river. Christine looked at them in silence, her head resting on her hand, her eyes fixed on the horizon. For a long while William stood beside her, then he placed his hand on her shoulder and pronounced her name. She rose and followed him. They ascended the stairs, traversed the gallery, and William opened a door. "Your mother's room," said he to Christine. The novice entered and stood still in the middle of the chamber; tears flowed from her eyes, she clasped her hands and prayed. 66 My daughter," said William," she ardently desired your happiness." "She has obtained it," replied the novice. The old man felt a profound sadness come over him. It was like pressing to his heart a corpse to which his love restored neither breath nor warmth. Martha-Mary approached her mother's bed, knelt down, and kissed the pillow that had supported the dying head of Annunciata. "Mother," she murmured," soon we shall meet again." William shuddered. He took Christine's hand, and led her to the room she had formerly occupied. The little white-curtained bed was still there, the guitar hung against the wall, Christine's favorite volumes filled the shelves of her modest book-case; through the open window were seen the willows and the river. Martha-Mary noticed none of these things; the wooden crucifix was still upon the wall; she rapidly approached it, knelt, and bowed her head upon the feet of Christ, closed her eyes and breathed deeply, like one finding repose after long fatigue. Like the exile returning to his native land, like the storm-tossed mariner regaining the port, she remained with brow resting upon her Saviour's feet. The Standing by her side, William looked on in tearful silence. Further off, Gothon wiped her eyes with her apron. Several hours elapsed. house-clock struck, the birds sang in the garden; the winds rustled among the trees; in the lofty pigeon-house the doves cooed; the cock crowed in the poultry-yard. None of these loved and familiar sounds could divert Martha-Mary from her devout meditation. Sick at heart, her uncle descended to the parlor. He remained there long, plunged in gloomy reflections. Suddenly hasty steps were heard; a young man rushed into the room and into William's arms. "Christine! Christine !" cried Herbert; "where is Christine? Is it not a dream? M. Van Ainberg gives me Christine! Once more in my native land, and Christine mine." "Karl Van Amberg gives, but God refuses her to you," replied William, mournfully. Then he told Herbert what had passed at the convent, and since their arrival at the house; he gave a thousand details he repeated them a thousand times, but without convincing Herbert of the melancholy truth. "It is impossible," cried the young man; "if Christine is alive, if Christine is here, to the first word uttered by her lover, Christine will reply." "God grant it," exclaimed William, "my last hope is in you." Herbert sprang up the stairs, his heart too full of love to have room for fear. Christine free, was for him Christine ready to become his wife. He has tily opened her chamber door; but then he paused, as if petrified, upon the threshold. The day was closing in, and its fading light fell upon MarthaMary, whose form stood out like a white shadow from the gloom of the room. She was still on her knees, her head resting on the feet of Christ, her fragile person lost in the multiplied folds of her conventual robes. She heard not the opening of the door, and Herbert stood gazing at her, till a flood of tears burst from his eyes. William took his hand and silently pressed it. "I am frightened," said Herbert, in a low tone. "That is not my Christine. A phantom risen from the earth, or an angel descended from heaven, has taken her place." "No, she is no longer Christine," replied William, sadly. For a few moments more Herbert stood in mournful contemplation. Then he exclaimed—“Christine, dear Christine!" At the sound of his voice the novice started, rose to her feet, and pronounced his name. As in for mer days, when her lover called "Christine," Martha-Mary had replied, "Herbert." The young man's heart beat violently; he stood beside the novice, he took her hands. "It is I, it is Herbert," he said, kneeling down before her. The novice fixed her large black eyes upon him with an inquiring gaze; a slight flush passed across her brow; then she became pale as before, and said gently to Herbert-"I thought not to see you again upon earth." "Dear Christine, tears and suffering have long been our portion; but happy days at last dawn upon us. My love, my bride; we will never part again!" Martha-Mary extricated her hands from those of Herbert, and retreated towards the image of Christ. "I am the bride of the Lord," she said, in trembling accents. "He expects me. Herbert uttered a cry of grief. "Christine! dear Christine! remember our oftrepeated pledges, our loves, our tears, our hopes. You left me vowing to love me always, Christine, if you would not have me die of despair, remember the past." Martha-Mary's eyes continued riveted on the crucifix; her hands, convulsively clasped, were extended towards it. "Gracious Lord!" she prayed, "speak to his heart as you have spoken to mine! It is a noble heart, worthy to love you. Stronger than I, Herbert may survive, even after much weeping! Console him, oh Lord!" "Christine! my first and only love! sole hope and joy of my life! do you thus abandon me? That heart, once entirely mine, is it closed to me forever?" Her gaze upon the crucifix, her hands still joined, the novice, as if able to speak only to her God, gently replied:-"Lord! he suffers as I suffered! shed upon him the balm wherewith you healed my wounds! Leaving him life, take his soul as you have taken mine. Give him that ineffable peace which descends upon those thou lovest!" "Oh Christine! my beloved!" cried Herbert, once more taking her hand, "do but look at me! turn your eyes upon me and behold my tears! Dearest treasure of my heart! you seem to slumber! Awake! Have you forgotten our tender meetings? the willows bending over the stream, the boat in which we sailed a whole night, dreaming the joy of eternal union? See! the moon rises as it rose that night. We were near each other as now; but then they tore us asunder, and now we are free to be together! Christine, have you ceased to love? Is all forgotten?" William took her other hand. "Dear child," he said, "we entreat you not to leave us! To you we look for happiness; remain with us, Christine." One hand in the hands of Herbert, the other in those of William, the novice slowly and solemnly replied: "The corpse that reposes in the tomb does not lift the stone to reënter the world. The soul that has seen heaven, does not leave it to return to earth. The creature to whom God has said, 'Be thou the spouse of Christ,' does not quit Christ to unite herself to a man; and she who is about to die should turn her attention from mortal things!" "Herbert!" cried William, "be silent! Not another word! I can scarcely feel the throbbing of her pulse! She is paler even than when I first saw her behind the convent grating. We give her pain. Enough, Herbert, enough! Better yield her to God upon earth, than send her to him in heaven!" "Re The old man placed the almost inanimate head of Martha-Mary upon his shoulder, and pressed her to his heart as a mother embraces her child. cover yourself, my daughter," he said; "I will restore you to the house of God." Martha-Mary turned her sad and gentle gaze upon her uncle, and her hand feebly pressed his. Then addressing herself to Herbert : "You, Herbert," she said, in a scarcely audible voice, "you, who will live, do not abandon him!" "Christine!" cried Herbert, on his knees before his betrothed. "Christine! do we part forever?" The novice raised her eyes to heaven. "Not forever!" she replied. Some days afterwards the convent gates opened to receive sister Martha-Mary. They closed upon her for the last time. With feeble and unsteady step the novice traversed the cloisters to prostrate herself on the altar-steps. The superior came to her. "Oh my mother!" exclaimed Christine, the fountain of whose tears was opened, and who wept as in the days of her childhood, "I have seen him and left him! To thee I return, oh Lord! faithful to my vows, I await the crown that shall consecrate me thy spouse. Thy voice alone shall henceforward reach my ears; I come to sing thy praises, to pray and serve thee until the end of my life!Holy mother, prepare the robe of serge, the white crown, the silver cross; I am ready!" |