down upon her form.

The abbess was a tall, fair, blue-eyed woman, upon whose serene brow the
seal of eternal peace seemed set. She was about fifty years of age, but
her clear eyes and smooth skin showed how tranquilly these years had
passed. She was clothed in the well-known garb of her order--in a black
dress, with long, hanging sleeves, and a long, black vail. Her face was
framed in with the usual white linen bands, her robe confined at the
waist by a girdle, from which hung her rosary of agates; and her silver
cross hung from her neck.

The abbess was a lady of the most noble birth, connected with the royal
house of Orleans.

In the revolution which had driven Louis Philippe from the throne, her
father and her brother had perished. Her mother had passed away long
before. She remained in the convent of St. Rosalie, where she was being
educated.

And when, early in the days of the Second Empire, her fortune was
restored to her, instead of leaving the cloister, where she had found
peace, for the world, where she had found only tribulation, she took the
vail and the vows that bound her to the convent forever, and devoted her
means to enriching and enlarging the house. The convent had always
supported itself by its celebrated academy for young ladies. It had also
maintained a free school for poor children. But now the heiress of the
noble house of de Crespignie added a Home for Aged Women, an asylum for
Orphan Girls and Nursery for Deserted Infants. And all these were placed
under the charge of the Sisters of Mercy.

Of the fifty years of this lady's life, forty had been spent in the
convent where she had lived as pupil, novice, nun and abbess. Her
cloistered life had been passed in active good works, if nurturing
infancy, educating orphans, cheering age, and ordering and governing
an excellent academy for young ladies, can be called so.

And whatever such a life may have brought to others, it brought to this
princess of the banished Orleans family perfect peace.

She stood now looking down with infinite pity on the stricken form and
face of her late pupil. She saw that some heavy blow from sorrow had
crushed her. And she did not wonder at this.

For to the apprehension of the abbess, the world from which her late
pupil had returned was full of tribulation, as the convent was full of
peace.

She stood looking down on her a moment, and then murmured, in tones of
ineffable tenderness:

"My child!"

"Mother