o, and Cupid soon joined their hearts
with an immortal chain.

After their betrothal, Rezanoff hastened back to the destitute colony
with supplies. Then he sped on toward St. Petersburg, buoyant with a
lover's hope of obtaining his sovereign's sanction to his marriage, and
perhaps an appointment to Spain, which would enable him to give his
bride a distinguished position in the country of her proud ancestors.
Alas, death overtook the lover _en route_ across the snows of Siberia.

When Dona Concepcion learned of her bereavement, her lamentations were
tearless, her sorrow inconsolable. She turned from social duties and
honors, and, clad in mourning weeds, devoted her time and means to the
poor and the afflicted, among whom she became known and idolized as
"the beautiful angel in black." After the death of her parents, she
endowed St. Catherine's Convent with her inheritance, took the vows of
the Dominican nun, and the world saw her no more.

Early in her sorrow, she had prayed that death might come to her in the
season when the snow lay deep on Siberia's plain; and her prayer was
realized, for it was on a bleak winter morning that we pupils gathered
in silence around the breakfast table, knowing that Sister Dominica lay
upon her bier in the chapel.

The meal was nearly finished when Sister Amelda entered, and spoke to a
couple of the Spanish young ladies, who bowed and immediately withdrew.
As she came down the line selecting other Spanish friends of the dead,
she stopped beside me long enough to say:

"You also may go to her. You comforted her in life, and it is fitting
that you should be among those who keep the last watch, and that your
prayers mingle with theirs."

After her burial, which was consecrated by monastic rites, I returned
to the schoolroom with reverential memories of Sister Dominica, the
once "beautiful angel in black."

The school year closed in July, 1858, and I left the convent with
regret. The gentle, self-sacrificing conduct of the nuns had destroyed
the effect of the prejudicial stories I had heard against conventual
life. The tender, ennobling influences which had surrounded me had
been more impressive than any I had experienced during orphanhood, and
I dreaded what the noisy world might again have in store for me.

My sister Frances and William R. Wilder, who had been betrothed for
more than a year, and had kept their secret until we three returned
from the convent, were married November 2