much on hand to notice us, But I
would not the saints and angels should see us. Would you?"

"My poor soul, hope not to escape their sight! The only way is not to
think of them; for if you do, it poisons your cup. For two pins I'd run
and leave thee. Art pleasant company in sooth."

"After all, girl, so that men see us not, what signify God and the
saints seeing us? Feel this chain! 'Tis virgin gold. I shall cut two of
these heavy links off for thee."

"Ah! now thy discourse is to the point," And she handled the chain
greedily. "Why, 'tis as massy as the chain round the virgin's neck at
the conv--" She did not finish the word.

"Whisht! whisht! whisht! 'Tis it. And thou shalt have thy share. But
betray me not."

"Monster!" cried Janet, drawing back from him with repugnance; "what,
rob the blessed Virgin of her chain, and give it to an--"

"You are none," cried Clement exultingly, "or you had not recked for
that-Mary!"

"Ah! ah! ah!"

"Thy patron saint, whose chain this is, sends me to greet thee"

She ran screaming to the window and began to undo the shutters.

Her fingers trembled, and Clement had time to debarass himself of his
boots and his hat before the light streamed in upon him, He then let his
cloak quietly fall, and stood before her, a Dominican friar, calm and
majestic as a statue, and held his crucifix towering over her with a
loving, sad, and solemn look, that somehow relieved her of the physical
part of fear, but crushed her with religious terror and remorse. She
crouched and cowered against the wall.

"Mary," said he gently; "one word! Are you happy?"

"As happy as I shall be in hell."

"And they are not happy at the convent; they weep for you."

"For me?"

"Day and night; above all, the Sister Ursula."

"Poor Ursula!" And the strayed nun began to weep herself at the thought
of her friend.

"The angels weep still more. Wilt not dry all their tears in earth and
heaven and save thyself?"

"Ay! would I could; but it is too late."

"Satan avaunt," cried the monk sternly. "'Tis thy favourite temptation;
and thou, Mary, listen not to the enemy of man, belying God, and
whispering despair. I who come to save thee have been a far greater
sinner than thou. Come, Mary, sin, thou seest, is not so sweet, e'n in
this world, as holiness; and eternity is at the door."

"How can they ever receive me again?"

"'Tis their worthiness thou doubtest now. But in truth they pine for
thee. 'Twas in pity