man heart, not its triumphs; for passion has a throne
that tears may wash in vain. It is easier to drive the mighty river
from its long-loved bed than the soul from the normal state of its
gratified tendencies.

"The heart," says St. Liguori, "where passion reigns, has become a
crystal vase filled with earth no longer penetrated by the rays of
the sun." The iron pedestal of passion's throne was not yet shivered
in the heart of Alvira, nor were tears a sign that the sun of grace
had pierced the crystal vase of the worldly heart. Great will be
the grace that will draw Alvira from the zenith of a golden dream in
which a triumphant ambition has placed her above her sex, and great
amongst the heroes of the manly sex she feigned. Her conversion will
be a miracle--a miracle of sweet violence, such as drew the Magdalens,
the Augustines, and the Cortonas from the trammels of vice to the holy
and happy path of repentance.

The sermon is over. The crowd is still between Alvira and the Molo;
she must wait.

The people are gradually dispersing. Some go to the church to follow
up the holy inspirations given, to throw themselves at the feet of a
confessor, to break the chains of sin; others hasten to their homes
or daily avocations, wondering, pleased, and sanctified in good desires
and resolutions that came gushing from their hearts.

Alvira is standing to one side alone and wrapt in thought. Suddenly
she looks up. Something catches her eye. She starts; a tremble passes
from head to foot. She looks again; her worst terrors are realized.
It is--Father Francis is coming towards her!

"But he can't be coming to me," she thought to herself. She looked
around to see if there were any other object to bring the father in
that direction; but there was no poor creature to ask his charity, no
poor cripple to seek his sympathy; she was almost alone. She could
have fled, but felt herself fixed to the ground, and with desperate
efforts endeavored to conceal her excitement. He approaches nearer;
with glistening eye she watches and hopes some fortuitous circumstances
may call him aside. Their glance meets; she blushes and trembles,
Father Francis is before her.

For a moment he gazed on the young captain with a kind, penetrating
look; and a smile on his features seemed to express a friendly
recognition. Calling her by her assumed name, he said to her, almost
in a whisper: "Charles, go to confession; God wishes thee well."