and Blanche passed in their way to the great hall, where a nun, who was
crossing to the stair-case, replied to the enquiries of the former, that
sister Agnes was still living, and sensible, but that it was thought she
could not survive the night. In the parlour, they found several of
the boarders, who rejoiced to see Emily, and told her many little
circumstances that had happened in the convent since her departure, and
which were interesting to her only because they related to persons, whom
she had regarded with affection. While they thus conversed the abbess
entered the room, and expressed much satisfaction at seeing Emily, but
her manner was unusually solemn, and her countenance dejected. 'Our
house,' said she, after the first salutations were over, 'is truly a
house of mourning--a daughter is now paying the debt of nature.--You
have heard, perhaps, that our daughter Agnes is dying?'

Emily expressed her sincere concern.

'Her death presents to us a great and awful lesson,' continued the
abbess; 'let us read it, and profit by it; let it teach us to prepare
ourselves for the change, that awaits us all! You are young, and have
it yet in your power to secure "the peace that passeth all
understanding"--the peace of conscience. Preserve it in your youth, that
it may comfort you in age; for vain, alas! and imperfect are the good
deeds of our latter years, if those of our early life have been evil!'

Emily would have said, that good deeds, she hoped, were never vain;
but she considered that it was the abbess who spoke, and she remained
silent.

'The latter days of Agnes,' resumed the abbess, 'have been exemplary;
would they might atone for the errors of her former ones! Her sufferings
now, alas! are great; let us believe, that they will make her peace
hereafter! I have left her with her confessor, and a gentleman, whom she
has long been anxious to see, and who is just arrived from Paris.
They, I hope, will be able to administer the repose, which her mind has
hitherto wanted.'

Emily fervently joined in the wish.

'During her illness, she has sometimes named you,' resumed the abbess;
'perhaps, it would comfort her to see you; when her present visitors
have left her, we will go to her chamber, if the scene will not be
too melancholy for your spirits. But, indeed, to such scenes, however
painful, we ought to accustom ourselves, for they are salutary to the
soul, and prepare us for what we are ourselves to suffer.'

Em