heavenly! Yet still my Sister loved, and for the
Husband's sake She doted upon the Wife. One morning She found means to
escape from our Father's House: Arrayed in humble weeds She offered
herself as a Domestic to the Consort of her Beloved, and was accepted.
She was now continually in his presence: She strove to ingratiate
herself into his favour: She succeeded. Her attentions attracted
Julian's notice; The virtuous are ever grateful, and He distinguished
Matilda above the rest of her Companions.'

'And did not your Parents seek for her? Did they submit tamely to
their loss, nor attempt to recover their wandering Daughter?'

'Ere they could find her, She discovered herself. Her love grew too
violent for concealment; Yet She wished not for Julian's person, She
ambitioned but a share of his heart. In an unguarded moment She
confessed her affection. What was the return? Doating upon his Wife,
and believing that a look of pity bestowed upon another was a theft
from what He owed to her, He drove Matilda from his presence. He
forbad her ever again appearing before him. His severity broke her
heart: She returned to her Father's, and in a few Months after was
carried to her Grave.'

'Unhappy Girl! Surely her fate was too severe, and Julian was too
cruel.'

'Do you think so, Father?' cried the Novice with vivacity; 'Do you
think that He was cruel?'

'Doubtless I do, and pity her most sincerely.'

'You pity her? You pity her? Oh! Father! Father! Then pity me!'

The Friar started; when after a moment's pause Rosario added with a
faltering voice,--'for my sufferings are still greater. My Sister had
a Friend, a real Friend, who pitied the acuteness of her feelings, nor
reproached her with her inability to repress them. I ...! I have no
Friend! The whole wide world cannot furnish an heart that is willing
to participate in the sorrows of mine!'

As He uttered these words, He sobbed audibly. The Friar was affected.
He took Rosario's hand, and pressed it with tenderness.

'You have no Friend, say you? What then am I? Why will you not
confide in me, and what can you fear? My severity? Have I ever used
it with you? The dignity of my habit? Rosario, I lay aside the Monk,
and bid you consider me as no other than your Friend, your Father.
Well may I assume that title, for never did Parent watch over a Child
more fondly than I have watched over you. From the moment in which I
first beheld you, I percei