g the convent; she was happy,
she said, and wished them the same happiness; she would only write
seldom, and perhaps would never return to Russia.

She did return, however, chose at random a small provincial town,
entered a convent there as a novice, and disappeared from the world. She
never knew if her family had looked for her; it was as though a curtain
had dropped between her and her former life.

Since then five long sad years had passed. She hoped she had secured the
happiness of those she loved, but she had not gained that sweet
quietude, that healing forgetfulness which she had expected. On the
contrary, her sadness increased with the lapse of time; memory became
more active; through the most of her tears she no longer even saw the
great ideal which was to safeguard her from herself. One single thought
possessed her: she would never be able to return again to those she
loved so well.

Sometimes, as she lay on her bed, her lean arms crossed over her breast,
she said to herself, that one day she would be so stretched in her
coffin, but then her sufferings would be ended, and death did not alarm
her; she smiled at him as a prisoner smiles at the radiant hour of
deliverance. But that hour came very slowly.

It was still dark when the bells rang for matins. Helene dressed herself
quickly and went out. From all sides black figures were gliding in the
shadow towards the lighted portal of the church. Some saluted her,
others did not notice her. Silence reigned everywhere.

She went to efface herself in her favourite corner, in the shadow where
she loved to stand, leaning her head against the cold wall. She did not
succeed in attaining to forgetfulness; on the contrary her memories
oppressed her, though she tried to lose herself in the contemplation of
the gentle Virgin who seemed to regard her with pity. It would have been
a relief if at least she could have shared her sorrow with some sister
soul, but Sister Seraphine was the only one who passed and re-passed
her, grumbling to herself as she went.

"Why do you stand there, like a statue? Make at any rate on your
forehead the penitent's sign of the cross! They are a real sorrow, these
young ones! You all have your eyes fixed on the holy pictures, but your
hearts are elsewhere. Think of it, Sister Helene! At the hour of death
you will be glad to pray, but then your hand will not have the power to
make the sign of the holy cross." And the old woman disappeared behin