was walking up and down in front of his own house beneath the trees,
pacing the grass, a noiseless sentinel. He had no duties now to perform:
undisturbed his thoughts might wander whither they would. They could not
wander far--too near was the magnet. The day had begun in a manner which
he could not but think remarkable: the shadow of approaching calamity
had disturbed him until the horror appeared. For, accustomed as he had
been to teach and preach and to think of death as a friend, the
conductor to a happier world, the enlightener and the life-giver, he
could not regard the departure of Sister Benigna in such light. The loss
to the community was almost irreparable, he began by saying to himself,
but he ended by saying, "Hypocrite! do you mourn the community's loss,
or your own?"

The tower-clock struck twelve as in his walk he approached the gate to
his little garden: he hesitated, and then noiselessly opened it. Here
were various fragrant flowers in blossom, and roses innumerable on the
well-cared-for bushes, but he passed these, and gathered from the house
wall a few ivy leaves, and climbing the fence in the rear of his house
began to ascend the slope that led to the cemetery, that place of the
people's constant resort. He did not enter it, but stood a long while on
the peaceful plain, which was filled with moonlight. At last he slowly
turned away and walked across the wooded knolls and fields until he came
to the corpse-house, which only yesterday he had garnished with fresh
boughs. He knew whither he went, and yet when he had come to the door of
that resting-place the external calm disappeared--the props of
consolation, the support of faith, gave way. He opened the door,
entered, closed it behind him, and by the light of the lamp suspended
from the whitewashed rafters saw Sister Benigna lying on the bier,
dressed in white garments, with a rose in one white hand.

When he came forth again a cold fog was filling the valley, and morning
approached. Who will wish to dwell even in imagination on the hours he
had passed in that silent house, or care to guess the battle which
perchance had been fought there, or the wild flow of tears which had for
years been pent, or the groans which could not be uttered, which at last
had utterance; or how at last the man died there, and the victor, as one
who had been slain, came forth?

CHAPTER XIII.

THE MOTHER CONFESSOR.

So the day passed in preparation for Sister Benigna's