ry bit of clothing had been torn from it by the logs."

"Don't tell such frightful stories," said the waiting-maid to the man.

Irma looked up at the steep mountains and asked:

"Could one climb up there?"

"Yes, but they'd find it mighty hard work; still, wherever there are
trees, man can climb."

Irma looked down into the lake, and then up at the mountains. One can
lose one's-self in the world. "How would it be if one were to do so?"
said the voice within her.

She stood up in the boat. The old man exclaimed:

"Sit down! there's danger if you stir one way or the other."

"I shall not move," said Irma, and she really stood erect in the
unsteady little boat.

"By your leave, the beautiful young lady surely doesn't mean to enter
the convent?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I'd be sorry."

"Why would you be sorry? Don't the nuns lead a pleasant, peaceful
life?"

"Oh, yes, they do; but it is a life in which nothing happens."

As if obeying a higher summons, Irma sat down and immediately stood up
again. The boat reeled.

"A life in which nothing happens"--the words touched a chord in her own
heart. With her, the pride and strength of youth rebelled against
sacrificing one's life in such a manner. It is a life in which nothing
happens: whether it be, like her father's, spent in solitary thought,
or, like that of the nun's, in common devotion. Are we not placed upon
earth so that we may call all our own--come joy, come grief; come
mirth, come sadness--a life in which nothing happens is not for me.

Filled with such thoughts she stepped ashore and, while walking up the
avenue of lindens that led to the convent, heard the boatman fastening
his skiff by the chain.

She inquired for Sister Euphrosyne. The nuns were all at vespers. Irma
also repaired to the chapel, in which the everlasting lamp was the only
light. Although the service was over, the sisters were still kneeling
on the floor. At last they arose, looking like so many ghostly figures
stepping out from chaotic darkness.

Irma returned to the parlor, where the portress told her that she would
not be allowed to speak to Emma that day, as the sisters were not
permitted to receive any communication, or converse with any one, after
vespers. Irma, in the mean while, was lodged in the convent.

It was a mild September night. Wrapped in her plaid, Irma sat out on
the landing until a late hour. Her thoughts were lost in the
illimitable. She scarcely knew w