from Heaven, and her words seemed to come with authority. As if her suggestion were already fulfilled, I felt a horrible oppression fall upon my spirits. I saw the narrow cell, the blank gray walls, the cloistered walks; then my thoughts flew to the green vistas of the lawns in Somerset, the sun-dappled garden wall, the meadows sweet with the scent of new-mown hay.

"I cannot," I cried, like one who struggles in the grip of a nightmare. "Whatever ills Heaven sends me, I must bear as I can under the open sky, with the birds and the flowers to help me."

Sister Catherine smiled sadly. "Your heart is not quite broken yet, child," she murmured, "since life still calls to you so strongly, and you have thoughts for other things than your sorrow. But wait a little! Not every one has the vocation to be a nun, and I would not have you take the vows without a sure calling, yet for one alone, beautiful and unprotected like you, the sheltered life offers a safe harbour and a peaceful end. The Mother Superior in the convent where I dwelt would receive you as her own daughter. Think of it, I beseech you, with prayer to be directed in the right course, and I will join my prayers to yours."

With this she kissed me tenderly and I left her.

When I was once more in my chamber, I sat in darkness pondering long and earnestly on her words. The longer I thought, the more that cloistered life, which at first seemed so abhorrent, began to hold out promise of comfort. Clearly I had nothing left to hope for in life. I had no one to whom I could turn for aid. Sister Catherine was not long for this world, and Mr. Franklin would sometime leave London. They were the only two human beings whom I could look upon as friends, while in a convent I should find perpetual care and loving kindness. I could spend my days and nights in prayer for him whom I was forbidden to love. Yes, surely this was the only way to cut the tangled skein of destiny.

At once, with my usual impetuosity, I threw myself headlong into the plan. I saw myself wrapped in a robe of brown serge, girdled with rope, dead to this world, and living only in the hope of another. To-morrow I would tell Sister Catherine of my decision, and request her to arrange for my going to the convent in France. But first I would talk it over with Benjamin Franklin. I owed that to him in acknowledgment of all his kindness; but the matter was settled, and I would never see Miles Farringdon again.