noply of Church and State, had the
heart of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday.

For the moment she felt much older than the Bishop, infinitely sadder;
more travel-worn and worldly-wise.

Then she looked at the silver hair; the firm mouth, with a shrewd curve
at either corner; the thoughtful brow.

And then she looked at the Bishop's ring.

The Bishop wore a remarkable ring; not a signet, but a large gem of
great value, beautifully cut in many facets, and clear set in massive
gold. This precious stone, said to be a chrysoprasus, had been given
to the Bishop by a Russian prince, in acknowledgment of a great service
rendered him when he came on pilgrimage to Rome. The rarity of these
gems arose partly from the fact that the sovereigns of Russia had
decreed that they should be held exclusively for royal ornament,
forbidding their use or purchase by people of lesser degree.

But its beauty and its rarity were not the only qualities of the
precious stone in the Bishop's ring. The strangest thing about it was
that its colour varied, according to the Bishop's mood and surroundings.

When the Prioress looked up and met the gay twinkle, the stone in the
Bishop's ring was a heavenly blue, the colour of forget-me-nots beside
a meadow brook, or the clear azure of the sky above a rosy sunset. But
presently he passed his hand over his eyes, as if to shut out some
bright vision, and to turn his mind to more sober thought; and, at that
moment, the stone in his ring gleamed a pale opal, threaded with
flashes of green.

The Prioress returned to the subject, with studied seriousness.

"I did not suppose, Reverend Father, that it was to be of any advantage
to the world, that Sister Seraphine should return to it. The advantage
was to be to her, and also to this whole Community, well rid of the
presence of one who finds our sacred exercises irksome; our beautiful
Nunnery, a prison; her cell, a living tomb. She cries out for life.
'I want to live,' she said, 'I am young, I am gay, I am beautiful! I
want life.'"

"To such as Sister Seraphine," remarked the Bishop, gravely, "life is
but a mirror which reflects themselves. Other forms and faces may flit
by, in the background; dimly seen, scarcely noticed. There is but one
face and form occupying the entire foreground. Life is, to such, the
mirror which ministers to vanity. Should a husband appear in the
picture, he is soon relegated to the background, receiving only
occasio