es as she closed her
impassioned appeal, and hid her face in the bosom of her sister.

'"Take comfort, Alice," said the eldest, kissing her fair forehead.
"The veil shall never cast its shadow on thy young brow. How say you,
sisters? For yourselves you speak, and not for Alice, or for me."

'The sisters, as with one accord, cried that their lot was cast
together, and that there were dwellings for peace and virtue beyond the
convent's walls.

'"Father," said the eldest lady, rising with dignity, "you hear our
final resolve. The same pious care which enriched the abbey of St
Mary, and left us, orphans, to its holy guardianship, directed that no
constraint should be imposed upon our inclinations, but that we should
be free to live according to our choice. Let us hear no more of this,
we pray you. Sisters, it is nearly noon. Let us take shelter until
evening!" With a reverence to the friar, the lady rose and walked
towards the house, hand in hand with Alice; the other sisters followed.

'The holy man, who had often urged the same point before, but had never
met with so direct a repulse, walked some little distance behind, with
his eyes bent upon the earth, and his lips moving AS IF in prayer. As
the sisters reached the porch, he quickened his pace, and called upon
them to stop.

'"Stay!" said the monk, raising his right hand in the air, and directing
an angry glance by turns at Alice and the eldest sister. "Stay, and
hear from me what these recollections are, which you would cherish above
eternity, and awaken--if in mercy they slumbered--by means of idle toys.
The memory of earthly things is charged, in after life, with bitter
disappointment, affliction, death; with dreary change and wasting
sorrow. The time will one day come, when a glance at those unmeaning
baubles will tear open deep wounds in the hearts of some among you, and
strike to your inmost souls. When that hour arrives--and, mark me, come
it will--turn from the world to which you clung, to the refuge which you
spurned. Find me the cell which shall be colder than the fire of mortals
grows, when dimmed by calamity and trial, and there weep for the dreams
of youth. These things are Heaven's will, not mine," said the friar,
subduing his voice as he looked round upon the shrinking girls. "The
Virgin's blessing be upon you, daughters!"

'With these words he disappeared through the postern; and the sisters
hastening into the house were seen no more that day.

'