such trifles as these. I wonder
if the nuns are happy?"

"Stay and judge, for here comes one, my chief friend here, Sister
Ignatia." And Sister Ignatia--who was, despite her quaint dress, the
most bright-eyed, cheerful-looking little Scotchwoman imaginable--stole
in, kissed Marion on both cheeks, smiled a pleasant welcome on the
stranger, and began talking in a manner so simple and hearty, that
Olive's previous notions of a "nun" were cast to the winds. But, after
a while, there seemed to her something painfully solemn in looking upon
the sister's, where not one outward line marked the inward current which
had run on for forty years--how, who could tell? All was silence now.

They went all over the convent. There was a still pureness pervading
every room. Now and then a black-stoled figure crossed their way, and
vanished like a ghost. Sister Ignatia chattered merrily about their
work, their beautiful flowers, and their pupils of the convent school.
Happy, very happy, she said they all were at St. Margaret's; but it
seemed to Olive like the aimless, thoughtless happiness of a child.
Still, when there came across her mind the remembrance of herself--a
woman, all alone, struggling with the world, and with her own heart;
looking forward to a life's toil for bread and for fame, with which she
must try to quench one undying thirst--when she thus thought, she almost
longed for such an existence as this quiet monotony, without pleasure
and without pain.

"You must come and see our chapel, our beautiful chapel," said
Sister Ignatia. "We have got pictures of our St. Margaret and all
her children." And when they reached the spot--a gilded, decorated,
flower-garden temple, she pointed out with great interest the various
memorials of the sainted Scottish Queen.

Olive thought, though she did not then say, that noble Margaret, the
mother of her people, the softener of her half-savage lord, the teacher
and guide of her children, was more near the ideal of womanhood than the
simple, kind-hearted, but childish worshippers, who spent their lives in
the harmless baby-play of decking her shrine with flowers.

"Yet these are excellent women," said Marion M'Gillivray, when, on their
departure, Olive expressed her thoughts aloud. "You cannot imagine the
good they do in their restricted way. But still, if one must lead a
solitary life I would rather be Aunt Flora!"

"Yes, a thousand, thousand times! There is something far higher in a
wo