ter that went to her
own room, where she stood awhile at her window, and looked out on the
garden of the Ursulines. The moon hung full orb in the stainless heaven,
and deepened the mystery of the paths and trees, and lit the silvery
roofs and chimneys of the convent with tender effulgence. A wandering
odor of leaf and flower stole up from the garden, but she perceived the
sweetness, like the splendor, with veiled senses. She was turning over
in her thought the incidents of her walk, and trying to make out if
anything had really happened, first to provoke her against Mr. Arbuton,
and then to reconcile her to him. Had he said or done anything about her
favorite painting (which she hated now), or the Marches, to offend her?
Or if it had been his tone and manner, was his after-conduct at the old
church sufficient penance? What was it he had done that common humanity
did not require? Was he so very superior to common humanity, that she
should meekly rejoice at his kindness to the afflicted mother? Why need
she have cared for his forbearance toward the rapt devotee? She became
aware that she was ridiculous. "Dick was right," she confessed, "and I
will _not_ let myself be made a goose of"; and when the bugle at the
citadel called the soldiers to rest, and the harsh chapel-bell bade the
nuns go dream of heaven, she also fell asleep, a smile on her lips and a
light heart in her breast.

VI.

A LETTER OF KITTY'S.

Quebec, August --, 1870.

Dear Girls: Since the letter I wrote you a day or two after we got
here, we have been going on very much as you might have expected. A
whole week has passed, but we still bear our enforced leisure with
fortitude; and, though Boston and New York are both fading into the
improbable (as far as we are concerned), Quebec continues
inexhaustible, and I don't begrudge a moment of the time we are
giving it.

Fanny still keeps her sofa; the first enthusiasm of her affliction
has worn away, and she has nothing to sustain her now but planning
our expeditions about the city. She has got the map and the history
of Quebec by heart, and she holds us to the literal fulfilment of her
instructions. On this account, she often has to send Dick and me out
together when she would like to keep him with her, for she won't
trust either of us alone, and when we come back she examines us
separately to see whether we have skipped anything. This