dark nor dingy as one might have expected to
find it. It had a flooring of warmly coloured
tiles, with a mat here and there, on which waiting
unaccustomed feet might take their stand,
if it so happened they felt cold upon the stones.
A landscape was painted on the lofty ceiling, a
little faded and obscured by age, but with
colours still rich enough and soft enough to suit
the present character of the place. There was
a very broad staircase in the background,
balustrades and steps alike of dark-grained oak, over
which the warm living jewels came dropping
with the sunlight, whilst cherub's heads, laid
lovingly together, looked down out of a deeply-
stained window on the landing above. Most
truly that old nobleman had known how to make
beauty in his dwelling.

There was a sound of muffled music in the air,
lulling and swelling as through closed doors,
supplicating strains rising and sustaining their
demand, then falling, sinking away softly, with
great comfort, as in thanksgiving. The little
nun bent her head, and moved her lips while she
walked, as though it were her duty to join in the
prayer as well as she might be able, being
accidentally at a distance from her nook among the
singers.

"In a place of pasture he hath set me,"
murmured the little nun, at a breath, like one hasty
and hungry, swallowing a good thing. "The
Lord ruleth me; and I shall want nothing. He
hath set me in a place of pasture."

Then she threw open a door, and smiling,
with the gladness of that whisper still lurking
about her lips,

"Will you please to step in here," she said,
"and wait, and I will go on the instant and give
your message to our mother."

The room into which Hester was thus shown
had been the nobleman's dining-room. It had
brown panelled walls, and a brown glittering
floor. The two long windows set up high and
narrow in the wall had heraldic devices carved
over them. There was a large vase of roses and
lilies, a full-length statue of Christ blessing
little children, an alms-box, with its label, "For
the sick and dying poor," a table covered with
a plain red cloth, with an inkstand, with writing
materials, with a few books. The windows were
already opened, and there was not a speck of
dust about the place. It shone with cleanliness,
it smiled with cheerfulness, it gave one good
morning out of all its corners. It said, "See
what a pleasant place has been prepared for you;
sit down and rest." But Hester had no heart
to respond to such a greeting. She stood there
in this atmosphere of freshness and order, feeling
all out of place in her flimsy crushed draperies,
her gaudy mantle and dishevelled hair.
She turned her back upon the sunlight, and
stood waiting with her eyes upon the door.

By-and-by the handle moved, turned; there
was a little rustling, as of fresh linen, a little
rattling, as of heavy beads; the door opened,
and the "mother" appeared.

Sir Archie's sister. One could see that at a
glance; though, upon reflection, nothing could
be in better contrast than the masculine boldness
of the man's face with the feminine softness
of the woman's. Here were sweet, tender,
pitiful blue eyes, and a brow smooth and
serene under its spotless linen band; no latent
fire; no lines to show where frowns had been.
The face was oval and softly moulded, and very
winning for its exquisite freshness and purity.
The mouth was mobile, and, though ever quick
with a right word, was yet, in its changing
expressions, most eloquent of much that it
left unspoken. The complexion was so
dazzlingly fair, so daintily warmed with vermilion
on the cheeks, no paint nor powder could
mimic it; only early rising, tender labours,
never ceasing and perpetual joy of spirit could
have combined in producing it. The quaint
black garment, the long floating veil, and
narrow gown of serge, were right fit and
becoming to the wearer. They laid hold of her
grace and made their own of it, while she,
thinking to disguise herself in their sombre
setting, wrapped the unlovely folds around her,
and shone out of them, as only the true gem
can shine. The shadow that the black veil
threw round her face made its purity almost
awful, but made its bloom and simplicity the
more entirely enchanting. Not the satins of a
duchess, not the jewels of an empress, could
have lent half such a fitting lustre to this
womanly presence of the gentle Mother
Augustine, of the daughters of St. Vincent, of
the very old convent of St. Mark, in Blank-square.
There were sick men and women in
her hospital up-stairs who could have talked
to the world about her beauty.

A slight expression of wonder passed over
the nun's face at the first glimpse of Hester's
apparel. But one quick searching look in the
shrinking eyes seemed to satisfy her. She drew
the girl to a chair and sat down by her side.

"You have got astray, my poor child," she
said, with sympathy. "You shall tell me all
about it before you sleep, that I may write to
your mother—to your friends."

"I have no mother, no friends," Hester
broke out with a sudden passion. "I am an
orphan, and a dressmaker's apprentice. I do
not want to trouble any one, and I will not go
back to them. I should have got on very well
if they had left me at my sewing."

The nun listened in surprise, with a troubled
doubt springing up in her mind at the quick
incoherency of this speech. Then she glanced at
Hester's face, which was held away, and saw
that the eyes had darkened and swelled, and
that two heavy tears were coming dropping
down her cheeks. And she knew by the
controlled lips that this was sanity in grief.

"You are in trouble, my dear," she said,
softly.

"Ah, it is that music!" cried Hester, making
a desperate little gesture with her hand. And
surely so the music was rolling on within hearing,
with its solemn appealing, and its sublime
content; enough to make a sore heart break
with envy.