[PI 
 
yJC' 
 
 I 2 9 7 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 1292.C2C7 
 
 The convent and the manse / 
 
 3 1924 021 985 332 
 
a Cornell University 
 y Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 924021 985332 
 
THE 
 
 CONVENT Am THE MANSE. 
 
 BY HYLA. p^^oc 
 
 What purpose has the King of aaints in view ? 
 ■Why falls the gospel like a gracious dew ? 
 To call up plenty from the teeming earth, 
 Or cui'se the desert with a tenfold dearth ? 
 Is it that Adam's offspring may he saved 
 From servile fear, or to be more enslaved ? 
 To loose the links that galled mankind before. 
 Or bind them faster on, and add still more ? 
 The freeborn Christian has no chains to prove, 
 Or if a chain, the golden one of love. 
 
 COWPBR. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN P. JEWETT & COMPANY. 
 
 CLEVELAND, OHIO: 
 
 JEWETT, PUOCTOK & WORTHINGTON. 
 
 LONBON: LOW & 00. 
 
 1853. 
 
Entered according to Act of CongresSj in the year 1853j by 
 
 JOHN P. JEWETT & CO., 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 
 Stereotyped by 
 
 HOBART & BOBBINS, 
 
 BOSTON. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 If the reader sits down to the perusal of this tale 
 expecting a deep-laid plot of cunning or cruelty, he 
 will be disappointed. Our simple object is to lift a 
 voice of -warning, and to show the contrast between 
 the pure and peaceable religion of Christ and that 
 system which is its dangerous counterfeit ; and, espec- 
 ially, to bespeak for the humble, deluded stranger 
 such kindly Christian treatment as may win him from 
 darkness to light. 
 
 In our mission to this class, we are not forced to 
 go abroad for a field of labor ; — Providence has 
 brought our work to our own shores, — ay, into our 
 very families. We would remind those who have the 
 guidance of these simple-hearted strangers, of John 
 Eandolph's rebuke to the mistress of many half; 
 clothed slaves, when he found her working with great 
 enthusiasm ,for the down-trodden Greeks, — " Madam, 
 the Greeks are at your door!" 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 Christians ! Christian women ! let not the cause 
 of the Burman, the Hindoo, or the distant Islander, 
 claim all your love, or steal away your pity from 
 the " Greeks " at your doors and in your house- 
 holds. 
 
THE 
 
 CONTENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Mourn for the mourner, and not for the dead; 
 For she is at rest, and we in tears." 
 
 The soft light of a southern day was slowly fading. 
 The air was perfumed with the odor of spring flowers 
 which were just beginning to open their soft eyes to 
 see if the old destroyer, Winter, were really gone ; 
 and, grateful for his departure, they seemed to have 
 agreed with the birds to celebrate the event with smiles 
 and music, so loudly sang the warblers among the 
 branches of the old maples and elms which lined the 
 avenue leading to a fine old mansion. All nature 
 was in peace or joy; but, how seldom does this lighten, 
 as it is intended to do, the griefe of the human heart ! 
 
 A group, clad in the deepest mourning, sat silent 
 on the broad old piazza. They had evidently been 
 conversing on some sorrowful theme ; for, while the 
 father sat with head bowed on his bosom, traces of tears 
 
G TUB CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 were still seen on the faces of his two fair young 
 daughters. 
 
 A lady with a shawl over her arm and a black 
 bonnet in her hand, sat rocking herself to tod fro, 
 with her eyes wearily bent on the ground ; when a tall, 
 fine-looking youth approached her with a whip in his 
 hand. 
 
 "Beady, mamma'?" he asked. "What, crying 
 again, girls? I shall not drive my mother over 
 again, for it always seems to make you sad. Why is 
 .this?" 
 
 "Cousin Herbert," replied the oldest girl, "when 
 Aunt Jessie is here we have so much advice to ask, 
 and so many plans to form, that it brings back the 
 past so bitterly ! " and she wept anew. 
 
 "My child !" exclaimed the father, " where is all 
 your resolution?" 
 
 "It is all gone, sir, and it seems as if your depart- 
 ure would break my heart." 
 
 "But, my dear Isabel," said the father with a 
 forced smile, "you are not fulfilling your promise 
 to sustain yourself and me too." 
 
 "Father, I cannot," she replied. 
 
 True indeed was her answer ! How can one broken 
 reed sustain another ? There was even then a Strong 
 Arm held out for their support, but the father leaned 
 not on it, nor did his weeping children do so. 
 
 " It would be very selfish in us, sister, to keep 
 father at home, when we know how soon the sea-breeze 
 would restore him. I am so happy that Herbert is 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 7 
 
 going toa! He is such a kind boy, and such good com- 
 pany he will be on the sea, or in foreign lands, where 
 only they can speak English." And the younger 
 sister raised her blue eyes, full of hope, to the dark, 
 tearful ones of Isabel. 
 
 " If I could but knote," said Isabel, " that it were 
 for the best, I could overcome my selfish fears; but, 
 father, if you should bfeeome worse in a foreign land 
 and I not there to nurse you?" 
 
 " We can but try, my children." 
 
 *' And hope, too, father," said the younger girl. 
 "■Hope, you know, will often of itself cure disease. 
 We will write you long, long letters, and receive 
 such welcome ones from you, so full of good news 
 from yourself ; and Herbert will describe all the fine 
 things and queer people you meet with abroad !" 
 
 "But, father dear," asked Isabel, "why not let 
 me also go to Aunt Anna's till your return? Why 
 must I be separated from Virginia ? " 
 
 "Your Aunt Jessie thinks the advantages for edu- 
 cation and society too limited for one of your age, in 
 the quiet villaige where your aunt resides." 
 
 "Yes, my love," said the lady, who had sat rock- 
 ing herself, with closed eyes, during the conversation. 
 " Your father has followed my advice in this matter. 
 Had I not three girls of my own, I would not part 
 with either of you." And the woman of the world 
 cast a look of admiration on her two motherless 
 nieces. 
 
 "Why do you not, then, send me to some good 
 
8 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 school at the' North, where I could be near Virginia? 
 I do nbt think my mother would approve of my going 
 to a convent," said Isabel, "for I have often heard 
 her speak of the great errors of the Komish church." 
 
 "0, my dear child," replied the aunt, rousing 
 herself from the languishing attitude she had assumed, 
 "you do hot go there to learn religion; that your 
 sweet mother taught you while she yet lived. It is to 
 secure a polite education that you go there. It is be- 
 coming very fashionable with the higher classes in our 
 country to send their daughters to convents for educa- 
 tion. The most refined and elegant ladies I ever saw 
 were General Gray's daughters, whom I met last 
 summer at the springs. The two eldest sisters were 
 educated by the sisters of the convent." 
 
 " But, Aunt Jessie, it is so contrary to what I know 
 my mother would think right," said Isabel. 
 
 "Your mother, my dear, was one of the loveliest 
 creatures I ever knew; but she had seen little of the 
 world. She was educated in a secluded village, under 
 the strictest puritanical influence. She never mingled 
 with Catholic society, and got her ideas of that church 
 from the history of barbarous times." 
 
 " But," asked the young girl, " they do not take 
 God's book for their guide, do they ? I believe they 
 think the church infallible, and that she can make 
 rules to suit her own purposes." 
 
 "I am sure I don't know, my love," -replied the 
 lady, " for I never vex my head about the belief of 
 churches, But this I know, that there is not half the 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 9 
 
 feeling against the Catholics or theii"" ceremonies 
 that there once Tvas. You have strong prejudices 
 against them, but you cannot prove them to be well 
 founded." 
 
 Alas ! it was too true ; Isabel could not prove any- 
 thing. The lost mother had instructed her daughters 
 in the doctrines of God's word, and charged them to 
 abide by its precepts. But they were not exposed to the 
 heresies of the day, and her fears from that quarter 
 were never aroused on their behalf Had she known 
 that they would be so early left motherless, she would 
 have given them armor for their defence in the evil 
 
 Mothers, whatsoever your hands find to do, do it 
 with your might, for the night cometh ! Give your 
 children not only a true faith, but instil also into their 
 minds the grounds of that faith ; for you little know 
 into what hands they may fall when you are gone. 
 Little thought that praying mother that the seed she 
 had sown and watered with her tears would, ere 
 it should spring up, have tares scattered among it. 
 The aunt, under whose partial guardianship they 
 now were placed, had of late become so dazzled by 
 popish rites, such as burning candles, incense, &c., 
 which had lately been introduced into the church she 
 attended, that she could look with no patience on the 
 sublimely simple forms of worship to which her nieces 
 had always been accustomed. Her chosen friends 
 were those who lived entirely for this world, and of 
 late several of them had sought for their daughters 
 
10 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 those accomplishments which they falsely imagined 
 could not be secured outside the walls of a convent. 
 Much as Mrs. Vernon desired to see her children 
 stars in the world, she could not endure their absence 
 from home, even though thereby they might gain the 
 reputation of having been educated at a convent. 
 The mother's doting affection overcame her worldly 
 ambition, and a governess superintended their studies 
 at home. 
 
 "You do not think, Jessie," said the father in 
 a low tone, as he drew his chair toward his sister, 
 "that these nuns will interfere with her religious 
 opinions 1 I have sadly neglected these things my- 
 self," he added, vfith a sigh, "but I wish my children 
 to retain the sentiments their mother held and so 
 beautifully adorned." 
 
 " No, indeed, brother, you need have no fears on 
 that ground. She may believe as she pleases for all 
 they care. They will make a polished lady of your 
 daughter, and ask, in return for their labor, not a fair 
 proselyte, but plenty of your money." 
 
 " That does not seem just the thing, either," said 
 Mr. Mclver, as if thinking aloud, " to care nothing 
 for her belief I wish from my heart they were both 
 going to their Aunt Anna's, — she is so like their 
 mother. But your plans are all matured, Jessie, so 
 I shall now trust her to your judgment." 
 
 " Isabel," said he aloud to the young girl who was 
 in tears conversing with Herbert, " try to feel satis- 
 
THE CONVENT AND TUE MANSE. 11 
 
 fied and happy, my loye, and that -will make me feel 
 so." 
 
 "I will try, father; but why, if Aunt Anna's is 
 not a suitable place for me, cannot I remain here, and 
 study with Aunt Jessie's goyerness?" asked Isabel. 
 
 "You see, my love," said Mrs. Vernon, "that 
 would give me four young ladies to bring out into 
 society at nearly the same time. I should look like a 
 matrimonial market-woman, prepared to supply half 
 the young men in the county with my wares;" and 
 Mrs. Vernon smiled, — but her smile was not returned. 
 The aching hearts of those she addressed had little 
 care about being "brought out " into society, or about 
 matrimonial alliances. They were in no mood for 
 trifling jests. 
 
 This aunt was the only sister of their father, and 
 the wife of a wealthy planter ; — scarcely past the bloom 
 of her own beauty, and panting to receive again, 
 through her fair daughters, the homage ofiered at her 
 own shrine in her girlish days. This vain pride of her 
 daughters was the one great fault (and who has 
 less?), which at times clouded her many virtues, and 
 made her truly afiectionate heart seem a cold and selfish 
 one. From her earliest childhood she had been taught 
 to regard the distinctions of wealth and fashion as 
 supreme ; so that, had she not been by nature gentle and 
 amiable, she must have become haughty and over- 
 bearing. Without God and without hope in the 
 world, she had reared in her own heart a shrine for 
 idol-worship, and a faithful devotee she was. The 
 
12 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 idols she -worsliipped there were her three beautiful 
 children. They were taught in the wisdom and 
 morality of this world,- never in that wisdom which 
 cometh from above. Little wonder, then, that the 
 outward accomplishments and graceful manners of her 
 motherless nieces should seem all in all to her; for, 
 how could she, who had never known the thirst which 
 earthly fountains could not quench, crave living 
 streams for those she loved? The only sorrow she 
 had ever known was occasioned by the death of her 
 sister-in-law, whose husband and children were now 
 about to be separated. But the effect of this loss was 
 very transient upon her buoyant spirit. 
 
 A romantic, girlish affection sprang up between them, 
 under the following circumstances. An advertise- 
 ment for a governess, some nineteen years before our 
 story commences, brought to Mrs. Vernon's neigh- 
 borhood the mother of these young girls, then a beau- 
 tiful maiden of eighteen. She was the daughter of a 
 New England clergyman, whose extremely limited 
 means of support made it necessary that his eldest 
 child should go out from her quiet home to seek her 
 bread at the time when most of all she needed a 
 mother's sympathy and guidance. She was employed 
 by a very rich planter residing near Mrs. Vernon, 
 then just married to a widower, the father of one 
 lovely boy. The business of the young girl was to 
 instruct the children of the family in all the usual 
 branches, and also a class of ladies in music, the pay- 
 ment for which latter service, nearly the whole 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 13 
 
 amount of her salary, her employer received. Thua 
 were his children to be finely educated by fraud, — fraud 
 of the most cruel kind, that of binding burdens too 
 heavy to be borne upon weak shoulders, when he 
 knew his victim was too delicate to utter complaints 
 or to battle for her rights. 
 
 Transplanted from a cheerful home whose chief or- 
 nament she had been, and from society where she 
 was highly honored, she could ill brook the haughty 
 reserve' with which she was treated in her new home. 
 It was toil, toil, from morning till night. No pleas- 
 ant walks, no cheerful companionship, no sympa- 
 thizing words of love. The rose faded from her 
 cheek, and her brow became ashy, pale, before the 
 leaves of her first summer of exile had begun to fade. 
 The toil she could have well endured, for love made 
 her heart strong ; but the look of dissatisfaction,' or 
 even the cold word of approval, when all was done, 
 almost broke her sensitive heart. Meek and humble 
 though she 'was, she could not but see how infinitely 
 superior she was to those with whom she lived. But, 
 alas for the homesick heart ! exiled by povertyifrom 
 home, by poverty must she be held in exile ; for great 
 was the sacrifice which had been made to fit her for 
 her present station, and to advance the money to place 
 her there. This last sum, however, her lordly em- 
 ployer had forgotten to refund. Stay she must till 
 this was earned, and enough more to place her feet 
 again upon blessed New England soil. 
 
 The impulsive heart and quick eye of Mrs. Vernon 
 
14 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 were not long in discerning the situation* of her young 
 music-teacher, in whom she was deeply interested; and 
 she resolved at once to rescue her. Her engagement 
 being only for six months, unless by a new contract, 
 she gladly accepted an invitation to reside in Mrs. 
 Vernon's family. This was given, partly for her own 
 sake, that she might enjoy the whole attention and 
 society of Isabel, but chiefly from an interest in the 
 lovely girl. A short adieu to her lordly employer 
 and his indolent wife was all her heart had to offer ; 
 but she shed tears of affection over her unoffending 
 little pupils, and spoke words of kindness to the scores 
 of dejected-looking negroes who thronged the house. 
 
 Now the hours, flew on angel wings, and her letters 
 became more cheerful, gladdening the anxious circle 
 around the heartlistone of the old parsonage among the 
 hills. She was now enabled to send home the money, 
 little loved, but greatly needed, there ; and every dol- 
 lar carried with it a thousand blessings, which were 
 returned again upon the head of the faithful child. 
 
 While in this happy situation, the brother of Mrs. 
 Vernon, returning from a foreign tour, became sa 
 much interested in the young teacher, that she was 
 never allowed to return to her mountain home till 
 he bore her there his bride. Mr. Mclver was much 
 older than Isabel ; a man of strong mind, but of gen- 
 tle heart. He was wealthy and of high station in 
 society, and hitherto having been quite regardless of 
 sacred things, had lived almost entirely for self. His 
 friends he admired and loved, but they had not drawii 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 15 
 
 his heart all'away from his noble self. Now, how- 
 ever, the time had come when an object dearer than 
 all else was to receive his attention and admiration. 
 Scores of wealthy ladies, from ,the "boarding-school 
 miss to the maturer belle who frequents the halls of 
 fashion, had craved his love, but none till now had 
 gained it. For what would be said in the gay world 
 he neither thought nor cared. Could he but gain her 
 heart, that would be world enough for him. 
 
 His wealth bore not a feather's weight with Isabel, 
 but he was by far the most refined and intellectual 
 man with whom she had ever met. His fine personal 
 appearance, but, above all, his noble traits, which were 
 dwelt on with so much enthusiasm by bis admiring 
 sister, won the heart of the astonished girl. After a 
 very short acquaintance they were married, and with 
 the polished man of forty, as well as with the unso- 
 phisticated girl of nineteen, this union was the result of 
 first love. It would have been a perfect union, but for 
 one thing. Mr. Mclver was a noble man, but he was 
 only a man of the world ; his wife was his idol, second 
 to none in his heart. She was a Christian, — God 
 was the portion of her heart, her chief good. The 
 beloved one He had given her took a lower place in 
 her afiections than did He. This lack in him was the 
 hitter drop in her sparkling cup of bliss ; but, as 
 nearly happy as a believer can be with .an unbeliever, 
 so nearly happy was Isabel ; for, although not him- 
 self a Christian, her husband was too honorable a 
 man to oppress or wound the conscience of any. 
 
16 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 Now, those holy things which he had been taught 
 outwardly to reverence he began to honor in his 
 heart, not, alas ! for their own sacred worth, but for 
 her dear sake who so highly prized them. Life passed 
 joyfully with them many a year, and, with their two 
 little daughters, they seemed a blessed band to dwell 
 on this sad earth. Their pious mother sought to rear 
 her children as she had been reared, in God's fear, 
 and to win by her own holy life the heart of their 
 father from this fading world. Once, and only once, 
 she saw her parents ; for, soon after her iind husband 
 placed them above the trials through which they had 
 long struggled, they were called away to that only place 
 where the faithful minister ever receives his full re- 
 ward, even the crown of life. Neither money nor 
 ease could make up for the loss of their daughter ; but 
 the earnest hope that she might be faithful to her pro- 
 fession, and accomplish good in her new home, recon- 
 ciled them to the separation. Nor was this hope in 
 vain, for many darkened minds received from her 
 loving lips the words of life. Many the kind word 
 of entreaty or of sympathy she spoke to the erring 
 or the suffering ; and many the chain she loosened, 
 which she had not power to break. Inasmuch as she 
 did it for one of these, she did it for Christ ; and from 
 the poor negro she received a return of gratitude 
 which none is more ready than he to give. Here, 
 doing her quiet work, she shone as a light in a dark 
 place, a character quite new to those around her. A 
 young slave, in describing his master's wife, closed his 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 17 
 
 glowing praises by declaring that she was born in the 
 " north star," that heaven of the enslaved. 
 
 In writing to her sister, years after her marriage, 
 she spoke thus of her husband : " He is all that I could 
 ask, save that he possesses not the one thing needful. 
 This blessing I daily crave for him, and doubt not he 
 will yet receive it. Let God take His own way and 
 His own time to accomplish that end, and I shall be 
 satisfied." Gentle spirit ! God's way to perform his 
 work was to tear thee, the idol, from his heart, and 
 His time was at hand ; — yes, and when it came thou 
 wert satisfied. 
 
 The heavy stroke brought the strong man to the 
 earth; but he asked, "What have I done to merit 
 this from God's hand?" The heart that would not 
 bend, was forced to break; for, "woe to him that 
 striveth with his Maker." The struggle was too 
 much for the stricken spirit,- and bis strength gave 
 way beneath his weight of woe. Then he saw his 
 weakness, and that the odds were too great against 
 him; he sank conquered, but not yielding, a dejected 
 man, — not caring for himself, and willing to be led by 
 any friendly hand. His soul yearned, with an agony 
 of love, over his motherless children : but how to se- 
 cure their highest good, he knew not. So the task of 
 providing for their education, while he should seek 
 health in foreign lands, was thrown upon Mrs. Ver- 
 non, who had ever been a faithful, loving sister to the 
 departed. 
 
 2 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 " There is a wandering bark 
 
 Bearing beloTed ones o'er the restless ■waye ; 
 ! let thy soft eye mark 
 Their course! — Be with them. Holiest, guide and save!" 
 
 " Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them 
 that fear Him." — Psalms. 
 
 How cheering was the first breeze at sea ! How 
 joyfully it lifted the dark carls from the lofty brow of 
 young Herbert Vernon, how coolly it breathed on the 
 feverish brow of Mr. Mclver, while they could yet see 
 the green fields, and hear the busy hum from the 
 land ! But, when the sun began to sink, how dirge- 
 like the wind-notes became ! The low moaning of the 
 waves brought back to the mind of the sufferer the 
 last faint sounds of pain from beloved lips, now silent 
 forever. The bounding heart of the boy leaped from 
 billow to billow, while he gazed all absorbed from the 
 vessel's side. In imagination he had already reached 
 classic ground, and was in spirit even now wandering 
 among the ruins of mighty temples, or standing in 
 all the pride of a freeman before the great rulers of 
 the old world. How bright to him was life ! Dream 
 on, brave boy! your time for conflicts with earth's re- 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE JUANSE. 19 
 
 alities has not yet come ; there is time enough yet to 
 awake to care and sorrow. 
 
 The weary heart of our older voyager longed for 
 rest. Doing nothing is not resting; so, seating him- 
 self in his quiet state-room, where he could feel alone, 
 he began opening several little packages which had 
 been given him by friends at parting. First came 
 books, the merry and- trifling, to drive away serious 
 thought when most of all he needed to feel its influ- 
 ence. Next were articles of convenience or elegance, 
 as tokens of friendship and affection. 
 
 "This is Isabel's!" he said, as he pressed the 
 direction of the wrapper to his lips. " For my be- 
 loved father — from Isabel. ' ' 
 
 ' 'Beloved .' " he said to himself. ' ' I never knew the 
 deep meaning of that word till death severed, me from 
 one Isabel, and sickness from the other. I have no 
 right to expect God's care or mercy for myself, for I 
 have neither sought or loved Him ; but, for them ! " — 
 and he _ covered his face with his hands, exclaiming, 
 " God of their. mother, shield my children from every 
 rough wind — from the very breath of . unkindness !" 
 
 Again, ere long, he resumed his work: — "Dear 
 father, from little Virgie." " I can open this, for 
 every letter smiles upon me, and the memory of the 
 little fece I so lately kissed, smiling, though wet with 
 tears, does not break my heart like the thought of 
 Isabel. Virginia may never see her father again, but 
 she will always have a throng of friends. She asks 
 the love of. all, by her open, winning ways, and re- 
 
20 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 ceives what she asks. But, poor Isabel ! — her heart, 
 craving the same love, knows not how to claim it, 
 and few lay, unasked, the boon at her feet. A noble 
 soul, with all her mother's charms — but, ! how 
 unfit to buffet with life's trials ! Would that she was 
 safely'landed by her mother's side in heaven ! ' ' Start- 
 ling thought! Here was the weak mortal, after 
 having just reproached his Maker, now tempting Him 
 to repeat the blow ! He-saw what he was doing, and, 
 covering his face with his hands, wept such tears as 
 only a strong man can weep. 
 
 He opened Isabel's httle packages It contained her 
 mother's Bible. On a blank leaf was written^ in the 
 hand of the dead, " When my father and my mother 
 forsake me, then the Lord will take me up." Beneath 
 this was written, by his daughter, ' ' Like as a father 
 pitieih his children, so the Lord pitieth them that 
 fear him." — " Then God's pity must be great," he 
 thought, " and He may even yet have mercy on me." 
 He needed no Commentary on that passage. His pity 
 for his own, and the deep agony of the hour, had 
 taught him its full meaning. His heart was with his 
 children ; he threw himself upon his couch, and listened 
 to the sound of feet pacing the deck above his head, 
 and to the voices of his fellow-passengers. These 
 sounds were soon mingled with the flapping of the 
 canvas, and then all were lost to his sleeping ear. 
 He dreamed of his children, — that they were folded 
 in his once strong arms, safe from every possible evil, 
 and that forever. But, while he dreamed, the rest- 
 
THE CONVERT AND THE MANSE. 21 
 
 less wave was bearing him further and further from 
 the fair objects of his delusive visions. 
 
 The hurry "and bustle attendant upon leaving home 
 served only to deepen the grief of Isabel; so strongly 
 did the merry sounds, through Mrs. Vernon's house 
 contrast with the tomb-like silence of her own home 
 since her mother's death. Naturally fearful, and 
 somewhat inclined to melancholy, her loving heart 
 conjured up a thousand scenes of peril on the sea, and 
 of danger and sickness on the land, for the beloved 
 absent ones. She loved to brood over her sorrows, and 
 to remember her lost joys. In all the cheerful mer- 
 riment which characterized her aunt's family she 
 took no part. Their joys were not hers, but her griefs 
 were her own, and many the long hours she spent 
 alone in melancholy repining. Often, in -those sad 
 hours, did she wish for her mother's faith ; for she had 
 left a blessed memory behind her, and the seeds of 
 truth she had sown in these young hearts were not 
 entirely choked. Yet, with all her desires for sub- 
 mission to God's will, Isabel did not seek Him with 
 full purpose of heart. Her grief now became her 
 religion, and she almost thought that she merited 
 heaven for being so faithful a mourner. 
 
 The eifect of the coming ' change was far different 
 on Virginia's mind. A star could make more light 
 in the midnight sky for her sunny spirit than could 
 the sun at noonday for Isabel. The pain of parting 
 with her parents was alleviated by the full hope of 
 meeting them again, one on earth, and the other in 
 
22 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 heaven. Her mother had told her that God doeth all 
 things well, and therefore she believed it. That 
 mother had taught her the principles of our holy 
 religion ; and, because it was she ivho taught and so 
 beautifully exemplified them, Virginia embraced and 
 thought she truly loved those principles. Her whole 
 confidence was placed in her mother. Was she not 
 wise? — therefore, she must have known the right path 
 to heaven. Did she not love the souls of her children 1 
 — then she could not have led them astray. Thus 
 the young heart trusted; but she knew nothing, in her 
 own experience, like the faith of her mother. Had 
 her lot been cast in a heathen land, the same reasoning 
 would have made her a faithful devotee at idol 
 shrines ; had she been the child of a papist, she would 
 have been a rigid Catholic. 
 
 The hour of parting came, and, to charto away her 
 sister's tears, Virginia said, "In one short year, sister, 
 we shall meet at Aunt Anna's ; you an elegant and 
 accomplished convent scholar, and I a little rustic 
 village maiden." 
 
 "In a year, dear Virgie, you will see me seeking 
 a home with you, weary of the meek hypocrisy of 
 those nuns. I was tempted last night to wound Aunt 
 Jessie, and to disobey father, by going with you, after 
 all. What care I for accomplishments 1 I only want 
 a little room to myself, with perfect quiet; I want to 
 be alone, with only you, dear sister, near me." 
 
 "I know your going there, Isabel, is contrary to 
 what we were taught, and I wish Aunt Jessie had 
 
THE CONVERT AND THE MANSE. 23 
 
 consulted you before she made the engagement. But 
 now, as it is, you certainly must go. If you are not 
 happy, you need only remain a year." 
 
 " Sister," replied Isabel, "I am so sure that my 
 going would be contrary to mother's wishes, that I 
 feel, all the time, as if she were reproving me from 
 the skies. I must go ; but the responsibility must 
 rest on others. I shall try to receive all the good I 
 can, and do not thiak there is any danger of my 
 becoming a proselyte." 
 
 And thus they parted who were all the world to 
 each other. Life is all too short, and its sunny days 
 too few, to sever loving hearts. Mothers ! while you 
 live to do it, keep your flowers bound together, and 
 the wreath near your heart. For the days of dark- 
 ness are coming, and they may be many. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 " For all his wildness and proud fantasies, 
 I love Mm! " 
 
 " The drying up a single tear has more 
 Of honest fame than shedding seas of gore." 
 
 After a yery pleasant journey, in care of a gentle- 
 man going to Boston, Virginia was met tliere by her 
 *iincle and aunt. A few hours' ride, in their own convey- 
 ance, brought them to Brookside Manse, where she was 
 most heartily welcomed by her four cousins. In an 
 instant, before she took off her hat, or even sat down, 
 she was at home. But a shade passed over her face 
 as she gazed around the tasteful parlor and saw her 
 graceful cousins ; for she thought, if such ladies were 
 reared here, why need poor Isabel be immured in a 
 convent? 
 
 Much as Virginia had desired to see these rela- 
 tions, it must be confessed that to her naturally joy- 
 ous spirit there had seemed but a step between the 
 solemn puritanic parsonage she had pictured to her 
 mind and the jail-like convent. Great, then, was her 
 joy to find herself in an unusually cheerful family, 
 where the parents were the chosen companions of 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 25 
 
 their children, and the confidants of their youthful 
 hearts. Eeligion was at Brookside, what it should be 
 everywhere, the spirit of joy; for who so well as the 
 Christian can enjoy all the blessings and beauties 
 which come from his Father's hand 1 
 
 The remainder of the week on which Virginia 
 arrived was given as a holiday, that the cousins 
 might entertain her with the few little sights and 
 objects of interest within their reach. A merry little 
 waterfall, a cave where they could all sit and partake 
 of a picnic meal, and the cotton factories, were all the 
 "lions" Brookside could boast; but all were inter- 
 esting to Virginia, and the freedom from the restraint 
 she had feared made her new life delightful to her. 
 
 " And now, my dears," asked Mr. Vail, on Satur- 
 day morning, " what are you going to do with your- 
 selves to-day? All days are alike with your father, 
 Virginia, but with me this is the golden day of 
 the week. I will propose a plan for your enjoyment. 
 Sam is going into the village for some things from the 
 store. You can all go with him for the ride, notice 
 all you see or hear, and I will try to take tea with 
 you on the hill. Then let me hear from each of you 
 something of interest gleaned during your morning's 
 ride. Will that please you, Virginia?" 
 
 "Very much, sir," said the little girl, "and, if it 
 is not out of the way, I should like to see the old red 
 Bchool-house." 
 
 "We have none such now," replied Mr. Vail- 
 
26 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 The one your mother saw here was replaced by a 
 better one, long ago." 
 
 " It was Aunt Jessie who spoke of it. She visited 
 it with my mother, when here. She said it stood on 
 the top of a high sand-hill, and the poor little chil- 
 dren sat with their legs hanging down from the high 
 benches, six hours a day, all through the long hot 
 summer. She said the teacher could not instruct 
 Isabel, for she knew the most already." 
 
 Mr. Vail smiled and said, " Those days have 
 passed away in Massachusetts. We have a fine school- 
 house and a good teacher, now, for the common 
 branches ; but, for the higher studies and for accom- 
 plishments, we patronize the seminary held three 
 hours a day in your Aunt Anna's room." 
 
 A shade passed over the placid face of Mrs. Vail. 
 Could it be that Mrs. Vernon had ridiculed their 
 mode of life and advantages of education before this 
 open-hearted child? But her heart told her that 
 few mothers in affluence felt so deeply for the intel- 
 lectual wants of their children, or sacrificed so much 
 as she had done to supply those wants. 
 
 "I am so happy," said Virginia, "that aunty is 
 to be our teacher. Were it not for one thing, I 
 should be the happiest child in the world." 
 
 "Do you not know, my love," said Mrs. Vail, 
 " that as long as you live there will be some one 
 thing between you and happiness? And they are 
 blest who have but one thing ; — but tell us what 
 that is, Virgie, and perhaps we can remove it." 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 27 
 
 "It is the thought of Isabel," replied the child. 
 " Nothing but the wrong impression she had of your 
 home reconciled her to losing me and being shut 
 up among those gloomy nuns. When I write all 
 about your, our, lovely home, it will break her heart 
 that she cannot be here to study with us." 
 
 "Poor, dear child! For some wise reason God 
 has permitted her to go thither, and He can keep her 
 even there, where doubtless snares will be set thick 
 for her feet." — "Jane," said the mother, addressing 
 her second daughter, "I hope you will remember 
 your cousin in prayer, for she is in great danger." 
 
 Virginia raised her eyes inquiringly. Why to her- 
 self, as the sister of Isabel, was not this remark 
 made ; or why not to Anna, as older than either 1 
 There was in this request an implied commendation 
 of her lovely cousin, which Virginia did not under- 
 stand. 
 
 Breakfast and family devotions being over, Anna and 
 Jane went into the kitchen to aid with the Saturday's 
 work. Virginia begged leave to assist, and seemed 
 much interested in the baking operations, which were 
 all new to her. This was Anna's week to superintend 
 the cooking and the table. She tied a blue checked 
 apron around Virginia's waist, and gave her a sharp 
 knife, and a pan of apples to pare for pies. After 
 a glance or two at her white and jewelled fingers, Vir- 
 ginia seated herself on the kitchen door-step, and began 
 her work. Her cousin Sam had followed her, for the 
 purpose of admiring her ; but, being too well bred to 
 
28 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 stand gazing in her face, he said: "Well, cousin, 
 mother has put you into the yoke very soon, and I 
 have come to assist you." So he took out his knife, 
 and, seating himself on the door-step, heside her, began 
 paring the apples for her to slice. Sam and Vir- 
 ginia were kindred spirits, full of life and hope, and, in 
 forty-eight hours after they met, were like old friends. 
 
 "Do you think the black will ever come off, Sam?" 
 asked Virginia, holding up a pair of sadly-disfigured 
 hands. 
 
 "I'll see to that," said Sam, " when you're done. 
 I'll bring it off by magic." A noise attracted Vir- 
 ginia's attention, and, turning round, she saw Honora, 
 the one domestic of the establishment, like a fiend 
 with a fiery face, stirring with a long pole the burning 
 embers in the brick oven. 
 
 "What is she doing?" exclaimed the cousin, who 
 had never before seen such a contrivance for baking. 
 " That looks like the picture of the fiery furnace in a 
 book I had when I was a little child." 
 
 "That is what it is." said Sam; "and there," he 
 added, pointing to a long pan, in which were three 
 meek-looking fowls, with wings crossed on their 
 breasts, " there are the three worthies." 
 
 Virginia laughed, but in a moment said : " That 
 was not right, Sam; for mother always said we should' 
 never speak in a trifling way the words of Scripture." 
 
 " ! " replied Sam, ".that was only an allusion to 
 an historical fact. There's nothing holy in the 
 story." 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 29 
 
 "I remember once hearing my mother say that 
 trifling thus would weaken our reverence for God's 
 word, and that, so prone were we to sin, we should 
 always connect the same vain thought with a mangled 
 passage, even should we hear it in God's house." 
 
 "Well," said the boy, " I '11 try to remember, next 
 time; but, after all, it does not seem so very wicked 
 to me." 
 
 The crust was now ready, and the apples were 
 called for. Virginia resigned the pan into Sam's 
 hands, who carried it to Anna, while she stood hold- 
 ing up her stained fingers, and gazing at the white 
 hands of Anna spreading the crust. 
 
 "Well, girls," said Bam, with a roguish look at 
 his cousin, " I am going to harness old Bu ; will you 
 be ready as soon as the fiery furnace is filled? " 
 
 " I am going to stay at home to make some prepar- 
 ations for our tea on the hill," said Anna, " but 
 Jane and Virgie will go with you. Try to remem- 
 ber all your errands, Sam, and take cousin to see old 
 Mrs. Eose ; I will send her something nice by you." 
 
 " If you want your fingers whitened," Sam said to 
 his cousin, " don't set the color with that soap ; wait 
 a moment." He soon brought a piece of pumice- 
 stone, and began vigorously rubbing off the apple-stains 
 from her fingers. This done, she sought the large 
 chamber which she occupied with Anna and Jane, to 
 make her toUet. Jane had just put the finishing 
 strokes to the room, and they were soon prepared for 
 their ride. 
 
30 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 Sam brought the carriage to the side-door, and his 
 mother came out with her arms loaded. The basket 
 was for Mrs. Rose, the bundle for Sally Wilhams, 
 and the pail of milk for old Mrs. McCorkle, whose cow 
 could not be found the night before. 
 
 "Dear mother," said Sam, entreatingly, "can't 
 we ride without stopping so many times to-day 1 You 
 have taught Bu such tricks, that he stops at every 
 poor-looking house on the road, whether we have any 
 ' massy-drops,' as old Mrs. Rose calls them, or not." 
 
 Mrs. Vail did not appear to hear Sam at all, but 
 placed the things carefully in the carryall, and charged 
 them to be at home in time for dinner. 
 
 " Mother's name ought to have been Tabitha," said 
 Sam, as he drove off; " but, when she 's dead, the poor 
 folks round here can't show the garments she made ; 
 for they put them on as soon as they get them, and 
 never rest till they're worn out." 
 
 " You 've forgotten already, Sam, what I said this 
 morning about trifling with Scripture." 
 
 " I ask your pardon, cousin," said the boy, " but, 
 don't you really think I have the best mother in the 
 world 1 " 
 
 " Indeed I do, but I am sorry her son is not more 
 worthy of her," his cousin answered, archly. 
 
 The ride was lovely, the road, much of the way, 
 lying through a cool wood. They emerged from this 
 on the top of a high hill, and Virginia exclaimed, 
 when she saw the town below, with its spires and pub- 
 lic buildings, "0, how beautiful ! what a magnificent 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 81 
 
 view!" But Sam interrupted her by saying, "No-w, 
 see how orderly the horse will stop at the house we 
 are coming to. There," he said, as Eu came to a 
 dead halt, "he understood what mother said about 
 the pail of milk, — noble old fellow ! " 
 
 A neat, plump little woman came out from a very 
 small house on the road-side. "Mrs. McCorkle," 
 said Jane, " mother heard that you had lost your 
 cow, so she sent you a pail of milk." 
 
 The sight of the pail brought smiles, but the thought 
 of the cow tears ; so, hiding her smiles, and wiping 
 her tears with her clean apron, she said : " Och, Miss 
 Jane, honey, but the cow is the smallest part of the 
 loss ; sure, dear heart, Jimmy hisself never came 
 back afther he wint for the ould crather. Och, och, 
 but, sure, I 'm the heart-broken mother, swate ladies." 
 
 " I don't think you need be so anxious about him, 
 my good woman," said Jane, kindly ; " you know poor 
 Jim often stays out all night, and you don't know 
 where he is. But, what will you do about, the cowl" 
 
 " Och, what care I about the ould cow ! " exclaimed 
 the widow, "only," she added, curtseying, "that 
 his riverence your father subscriptioned the money 
 to buy her. Och, och, if my darlint should be 
 drownded ! Sure, swate ladies," she said, holding up 
 her hands in thfe form of a cup, " I cried the full o' 
 that o' tears, this last night ; 'dade, 1 wrung the sheets 
 and hung them on the line, after I got up, to dry 
 them ! " 
 
 Sam smiled at this hyperbolical assertion, and said, 
 
32 THE COKVENT AND THE MAKSE. 
 
 "But, you did not feel at all anxious, last winter, 
 when lie was gone a week in the storm?" 
 
 " Well, dears," replied the plump little widow, 
 "you see it's just here, — Jimmy and I had just 
 had some high words about whose of us should go 
 afther the cow in the . raifi. I bid Jimmy to go, as 
 any mother would ; and not a foot would he stir, 
 for all I could say. So I lost my patience, and I 
 took my will o' him. A mother must do her duty, 
 dears; so I bate Jimmy till he pulled the switch 
 out o' my hands and broke it. Tou know that 
 would never do ; so I had to bate him till I showed 
 my 'thority. I bate him with the long iron spoon 
 till I broke the bowl off it over his head. Then he 
 put his hands up to his head and cried out, 'I'll go 
 afther the cow, 'deed I wuU ; ' so I was just thinking 
 what a dale o' good a bating would do a wayward 
 lad. But, och, I never saw him afther that, dears ! " 
 
 ' ' And what do you fear has become of him ? '■' 
 asked Jane. 
 
 " Maybe he tuk his own life, thinking that his 
 nat'ral mother was cruel to him in a strange land," 
 replied the widow. 
 
 "I'll risk that," said Sam; "Jim enjoys life too 
 much for that. Maybe he drove the cow to Brighton, 
 and sold her. You know he was real'good at trading 
 off your eggs and butter, last winter." ^ 
 
 " Och, now, masther Sam," exclaimed Mrs. Mc- 
 Corkle, coloring, "sure it is not the like of you, a rale- 
 bred gintleman's son as you are, to be breaking the 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 83 
 
 heart of me, and killing me twice, by such talk. Sure, 
 isn't it hard enough to lose my darlint boy, widout 
 thinking he 'd do the like o' that 7 " 
 
 " But, my good friend," said Jane, " it would be 
 better for you to know the truth, even if it should be 
 painful. You had better describe him and the cow, 
 and ask some of the milkmen to inquire about them 
 when they go into the city to-morrow." 
 
 "Och! but isn't this a cruel world?" shouted 
 the widow. " Sure, if Jim is a bit wayward, it is not, 
 his mother's fault, poor lad ! 'Dade, I've bate him a 
 thousand times till he was all black and blue, particu- 
 lar since the ould man died, for he was very chicken- 
 heart and tinder o' ,Jim. If he 'd had a father to 
 bate him like other boys, he'd a been a jewel by this 
 time. But Dinnis always said he was as good as ony 
 boy, and would niver put a hand to him, — the ould 
 fool ! " 
 
 Sam could stand it no longer ; this last eulogy on 
 the departed Dennis wrought his already excited 
 risibles up beyond the power of endurance, and he 
 laughed heartily, to the great vexation of Mrs. Mc- 
 Corkle. Sh& began weeping aloud and rocking her- 
 self to and fro, till the milk rebelled in the pail, and 
 came splashing from under the lid. 
 
 "Mrs. McCorkle," said Jane, soothingly, "I feel 
 
 i^j much for you, but I have no idea any harm has 
 
 befallen Jim. You know he is almost a man now, 
 
 and will not bear whipping as he did when he was 
 
 3 . 
 
34 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 younger. I suppose he was angry, and means to stay 
 away long enough to alarm you for his safety." 
 
 " But, sister," said Sam in an undertone, " that 
 reason could not have influenced the cow to go with 
 him. She had no whipping, for which she sought 
 revenge.", 
 
 "That's true, Sam," Jane replied, softly; "now, 
 Mrs. McCorkle, I advise you to ask Eben Cole to 
 inquire for Jim and the cow, as he goes along the 
 road to-morrow morning." 
 
 The gentle voice of Jane seemed like a match to a 
 powder-flask ; for the widow replied, with fire in her 
 eyes, " Is it Eben Cole, the rascal? 'Dade, it will be 
 a long day before I ask a favor o' him. Sure, didn't 
 he break the mother's heart in me, only this morning, 
 bad luck to him ! " 
 
 " ! don't say bad luck to any one, — least of all 
 to him, for he's one of the kindest-hearted fellows in 
 the world," said Sam, who, weary of Jane's long 
 delay, had broken a branch from an overhanging elm, 
 and was earnestly whittling it. 
 
 "What has Eben Cole done to you, Mrs. McCor- 
 kle 1 " asked Jane. 
 
 "What has he done, is it 7 Didn't he call afther 
 me, when he rode by in his masther's ould milk-cart 1 
 and didn't he tell me that he heard that a boy with 
 rid hair was arristed this morning by the police, just 
 firnent the ould market, for trying to sell a white 
 cow ; and och. Holy Mother ! he was sint to the House 
 o' Corriction ! " 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 35 
 
 " ! thea you know where Jim is, after all," 
 said Sam. 
 
 '"Dade, then, I don't," said the widow. " Sure, 
 there 's more boys with rid hair, and more white cows 
 nor mine in the world. And, if it is Jim they 's got, 
 the darlint, more 's the shame on them to impose on a 
 poor fatherless lad ! " 
 
 " But," said Jane, " if Jim has done this wicked 
 thing, it is right that he should be punished." 
 
 "Wicked thing, is it?" retorted Mrs. McCorkle. 
 " Sure it's his own mother's cow, and if he has n't a 
 right to sell her, who has ? " 
 
 " "Well, good-by, Mrs. McCorkle," said Jane, 
 meekly, for she saw it was useless to multiply words 
 with her. Sam touched old Bu — for he never struck 
 him with a whip, — and oif they drove. 
 
 " I bespeak this precious specimen of maternal 
 affection and sound reasoning for my topic on the hill, 
 this evening," said the boy. "Will you give it all 
 up to me, girls 1 " 
 
 "Yes," replied Jane, smiling, "if you will relate 
 the conversation just as it took place, with the plain 
 facts unvarnished." 
 
 "I'm sure the scene needs no embellishment," 
 said Virginia ; "but, are you given to such tricks, 
 Sam?" 
 
 "My stories," the boy replied, "are all like old- 
 fashioned novek, ' founded on fact ! '" 
 
 " Now, Jane, you dear, good girl ! " said Sam, as 
 he drew up in front of an old red farm-house, whose 
 
36 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 best days had long passed away, "hand out your 
 ' massy-drops ; ' for you must not get out here, 
 you spent so much time in bewailing Jim and his 
 cow ! " 
 
 " I must go in just a moment, Sam ; I have a book 
 for Mrs. Rose, and I want to say a few words to her 
 about it." And she sprang lightly from the carriage, 
 and ran up the rough steps leading to the door. The 
 upper half was left open when she went in, and Sam 
 leaned forward to listen, saying to his cousin, "I 
 want to hear what she says, for Jang can talk just 
 like a minister. She 's almost ad9red by a set of old 
 goodies, round here ; and I expect, when she dies, 
 Mrs. McCorkle will get her canonized by the Pope ! 
 There is no Saint Jane, is there ? " 
 
 Just then Jane and her old friend appeared at the 
 door. Mrs. Rose, holding the book in one hand, and 
 leaning on a cane with the other, spoke kindly to 
 Sam and Virginia, — telhng the former, as a great 
 compliment, that he was growing every day more and 
 more like his dear father. " God bless you, my boy, 
 and make you like him every way ! " 
 
 " Thank you, ma'am ! " said the beautiful boy, as, 
 with a blush on his cheek, he ran his fingers through 
 his curly brown hair, that he might look still more 
 like him ; for Mrs. Rose and Sam thought alike of the 
 fine appearance of Mr. Vail. 
 
 " Give my best love to your mother, dear ! " she 
 said, addressing Jane ; "and thank her for the jelly 
 and biscuit. Tell her I hope I shan't be left to set 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 37 
 
 my heart on ' creetur comforts ; ' for hardly a day 
 passes but some massy-drops fall unexpected on my 
 head. Good-by, dears ! " And off they drove. 
 
 " What an idea ! " said Sam, looking round at Jane. 
 " Jelly and biscuits falling on her head ! The last 
 mercy-drops I let fall on her head were a bushel-bag 
 of potatoes and a spare-rib of pork ! " 
 
 " Sam ! brother ! " said Jane, reprovingly, "don't 
 make fun of aunty Rose ! She knows less of gram- 
 mar than you do ; but she can speak one language 
 correctly that 's a foreign tongue to you ! I often 
 think, bright as life is before me, I should be willing 
 to exchange places with her." 
 
 " What ! the hobble, and all 1 " asked Sam. "She 
 has such a peculiar lameness, — a sort of twitch and 
 hop; and, with that constant smile she wears, one 
 would think, when seeing her cross the room, that she 
 was quite delighted with her lameness. When I was 
 a little fellow, nine or ten years old, Ma sent me over 
 there, with my new hatchet, to split some pine wood for 
 the dear old soul. I worked awhile in the shed, and 
 then I began to wonder how she could keep up that 
 droll step I constantly heard in the kitchen. There 
 was an old broken rake near ; I split the handle a 
 little way, and inserted a flat piece of wood, and thus 
 made quite a respectable crutch. I then made an 
 attempt to walk like mine hostess, and was just get- 
 ting her merry step, when suddenly the door opened, 
 and she stood before me. I first thought of throwing 
 away my crutch, and running ; but, on second thought. 
 
38 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 I held it up, and said to her, ' I 've been trying to 
 see how you can -vralk so. I find it very hard, and 
 wonder how you can always look so pleasant when 
 walking.' Then I told her that when I was very 
 small I used to wish I was lame, and had a crutch ; 
 because I considered herself and Joe Hartnell, the 
 lame shoemaker, the happiest people I ever met. She 
 was not at all offended, but laid her hand on my head, 
 and, laughing till tears came in her eyes, exclaimed, 
 ' God bless the boy ! '" 
 
 Virginia laughed; but Jane said gravely, "I'll 
 give you a verse to learn to-night before you sleep, 
 Sam : ' Whoso mocketh the poor reproacheth his 
 Maker.' " 
 
 Sam looked grave, and said, " You know, Jane, I 
 meant no unkindness. I am always willing to do 
 anything for her, and all the rest of your — what 
 shall I call them ? — your old ladies." 
 
 " But, I presume, if they knew that you were 
 watching their words to ridicule them, they would 
 prefer to dispense with your favors. This habit of 
 taking off humble people, who make no false pre- 
 tensions, is not only wrong, but mean. A true 
 gentleman never does it, even though he be not a 
 Christian." 
 
 Just before they reached the town, the horse, of his 
 own accord, drew up before a house which, from the 
 heads seen at the numerous windows, seemed to be 
 the dwelling-place of people whose name was "legion." 
 Here they left the bundle for the sick child, and soon, 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 39 
 
 haying done their business at the store, turned old 
 Bu's head in the direction which best suited his 
 inclination. An hour's ride brought them to their 
 own little village, delighted with their ride, and eager 
 for the picnic on the hill. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Then Ceremony leads her bigots forth, 
 Prepared to fight for shadows of no tforth ; 
 As soldiers watch the signal of command. 
 They learn to bow, to sit, to kneel, to stand ! 
 Happy to fill Religion's vacant place 
 With hollow form, and gesture, and grimace ! 
 
 COIVPEE. 
 
 It was late one evening when a carriage, with two 
 ladies, drove up to a splendid house in Morton-square, 
 
 in the city of . The rain was falling heavily, 
 
 and the streets through which the carriage was driven 
 in coming from the wharf seemed silent and deserted. 
 The house before which they stopped looked 0, how 
 dreary in its solemn grandeur, to the sad young eyes 
 which gazed from the carriage-window, as a dying 
 street-lamp threw its dim light upon it. 
 
 " This cannot be the place, madam ! " said Isabel; 
 " it looks like a gentleman's deserted city mansion. 
 There are no lights ! The people must all be asleep, 
 if it is the place! " 
 
 " This is the place, my love," replied her com- 
 panion. " The holy Sisters are probably at their 
 vespers now, in the chapel at the back of the house. 
 This is not a convent, but the house of the Sisters of 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 41 
 
 the Heart of Mercy. Here you -will remain a few 
 weeks, till some one comes to take you to the convent. 
 You will here learn much that will aid you afterward, 
 — such as the rules, and the preparatory lessons." 
 
 They were now standing on the drenched steps, 
 with the rain from the roof beating heavily on their 
 umbrella, waiting an answer to the bell. The driver 
 took the last trunk oif, and, setting it on the steps, 
 took his cigar from his lips long enough to say, " Dol- 
 lar, ma'am ! " Isabel gave the bell another and 
 another pull. 
 
 "You had better not ring again, love," said Mrs. 
 Latour ; " their first duty is to finish their devotions, 
 and this is just their hour for vespers." 
 
 " I think we had better have our trunks put on 
 . again, and let the driver take us to a good hotel, 
 before we are soaked through ! " 
 
 " By no means, my love ; the Sisters of the Heart 
 of Mercy expect us to-night." 
 
 " Strange kind of mercy theirs must be ! " said 
 Isabel. " I should think it wrong to keep a dog out, 
 on such a night ! " 
 
 Isabel's companion was a very devoted Catholic 
 lady, of French descent. It was in a great measure 
 through her influence that Mrs. Vernon had decided 
 to send Isabel to the convent, and she had volunteered 
 to place her safely there. A long correspondence had 
 passed between- herself and the ladies at the convent, 
 in which all Mr. Mclver's affairs were laid open 
 before them. They also knew that Isabel's spirit 
 
42 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 rebelled against the plan vrhicli her father had so 
 carelessly allowed another to make for her in his 
 absence. They knew it all, and their keen eye looked 
 not only to the three hundred dollars they should 
 receive for a year's schooling, but also to the wealth 
 which would come into her hands when she should 
 become of age. The news reached the Sisters of the 
 Heart of Mercy, whose Superior was the aunt of Mrs. 
 Latour. The holy mother wrote to her niece, saying 
 that she greatly regretted she had not first consulted 
 her before pledging the young lady to the ladies at 
 the convent: for, although they did not often take 
 boarding-scholars, they would gladly have done so in 
 this instance. As they must pass through the city 
 on their journey, she pressed a visit from them, hop- 
 ing that their house might be made so agreeable that 
 she would refuse to go further. 
 
 If, then, from their delay in answering the bell, Isa- 
 bel thought that her coming was disregarded, she was 
 widely mistaken ; for every movement, for days, had 
 been with reference to her, — even the delay in answer- 
 ing the bell had its motive. 
 
 Isabel was insisting upon going to a hotel, when the 
 door was opened by a servant. The girl stood aside, 
 holding the lamp over her head,, and by its light they 
 saw in the distance a tall figure, robed in black, ad- 
 vancing towards them. Like an automaton in mourn- 
 ing, she came forward, without once raising her eyes, 
 and folded in her arms first Mrs. Latour, and then 
 Isabel, pronouncing on each a short blessing. She 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 43 
 
 then, as if by machinery, turned her back towards 
 them, saying, in hollow tones, " Follow me ! " This 
 Isabel was reluctant to do; but she felt sure that 
 Mrs. Latour would not countenance any violence, even 
 though the victim were a Protestant ; and, seizing the 
 skirt of her dress with a hold she meant notito relax, 
 she ascended the stairs. At the last step they met 
 another nun, who seemed to have been cast in the 
 same mould as the first, the only difference being in 
 the coloring. The face of the first was white ; of the 
 last, yellow. Each now silently grasped a hand of 
 the visitors, and led them into a spacious room, where, 
 in front of a table covered with green, sat an elderly 
 lady, robed in nearly the same manner with the 
 other Sisters. There was less of awful solemnity 
 in her benediction, as she pressed Isabel to her heart, 
 and said, in a pleasant voice. " My daughter ! " 
 
 When they were seated, she questioned them of 
 their journey, and of their friends at home. Isabel 
 expected every moment that some apology would be 
 offered for delaying them at the door ; but no allusion 
 was made to it. 
 
 After a few moments, the Superior told the white- 
 faced nun to show Isabel her room, as she ought to 
 change her damp garments ; and she wished to have a 
 little conversation with her beloved relation before she 
 retired for the night. Isabel resolutely replied that she 
 did not wish to retire until her friend did so, as she 
 intended sharing her room. The nun, however, took 
 
44 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 her hand as if to draw her away ; but the superior 
 said, with a bland smile, "Be it so, my daughter; " 
 looking at Isabel. 
 
 " How strange it was," said Isabel to Mrs. Latour, 
 when they were alone, " that no apology was made for 
 keeping us at the door, for they must have seen how 
 wet we were when we came in ! " 
 
 " 'Heaven before earth,' is their motto, my love," 
 replied the lady; " and nothing could be suffered to 
 draw even a domestic from her vespers." 
 
 "Jesus," said Isabel, "was always ready to do 
 the smallest act of kindness." 
 
 Mrs. Latour was too well aware of her own weak- 
 ness to argue with the child, who knew so much more 
 of the Scriptures than she did. Perhaps she also 
 knew that the surest way of confirming the minds of 
 some people in their errors is to put them on the 
 defensive; so she only remarked that the rules of 
 their order forbade any earthly occurrence to inter- 
 rupt their devotions. 
 
 "I presume," said Isabel, quietly, "that they 
 would soon break through the rules of their order, if 
 the house were on fire. Selfishness would then over- 
 come bigotry." 
 
 The floor of the room in which they slept was, like 
 the rest of the house, covered with green cloth ; and 
 the furniture was neat, but plain. The three ladies 
 and three domestics composed the family. The eldest - 
 had charge of the house and its funds ; she was the 
 head of the family, while the two younger ones taught 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 45 
 
 a charity-school in the vestry of the adjoining church 
 of St. . 
 
 Weariness soon brought repose to the young stran- 
 ger. When she awoke in the morning, she found 
 herself alone ; and while Mrs. Latour was in another 
 room, giving the oldest nun an insight into her charac- 
 ter, and advising the mildest means to be used in 
 securing Isabel to the faith and her fortune to the 
 church, the unsuspecting girl knelt and prayed as 
 her mother had taught her. 
 
 Rest and the morning light had wrought wonders 
 in brightening the sad picture of the future for Isabel ; 
 and when the white nun came to lead her down stairs, 
 as if she were blind, she felt more cheerful and cour- 
 ageous. She resolved to keep up a faithful watch, and, 
 if she felt unhappy from anything she saw, to return 
 ^vith Mrs. Latour, or to go, on her own responsibility, 
 to her aunt in Massachusetts. 
 
 The hand which led her down stairs was stiff and 
 cold, and Isabel was half inclined to believe that a 
 machine, whose motive-power was invisible, had fixed 
 itself upon her, and was drawing her she knew not 
 whither. 
 
 A door at the foot of the stairs was thrown open, 
 and she saw the Superior, the yellow nun, and Mrs. 
 Latour, with three devout-looking domestics, in stuff 
 gowns, sitting like mummies before her. The eldest 
 lady rose and embraced her, repeating, in her sweet 
 tones, a few Latin words, in which Isabel understood 
 her to call her a poor lost lamb. 
 
46 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 " Why do you call me that? " asked Isabel. 
 
 All looked surprised, not only that she understood 
 the words, but that she was not too much overawed to 
 interrogate the Superior. Mrs. Latour thought it the 
 best policy for her to ward off the offensive reply 
 which the lady might make about Isabel's being 
 without the fold of the only true church, and said, 
 " Any child, my love, who has no mother, is a lost 
 lamb in this wilderness world." 
 
 " Not if she has a holy religion, to guide her to 
 that mother in heaven," said Isabel. 
 
 No reply was made to this remark, but the nuns 
 looked at each other with an expression of disappoint- 
 ment which did not escape the keen eye of Isabel. 
 They saw the independent spirit which had to be 
 broken before their work could be accomplished. 
 With some girls all that was needed was the skill of 
 the artisan who casts in moulds his brittle images ; 
 but in Isabel's case they required the strength and 
 genius of the master, who takes the marble from the 
 mountain, and gives to it all of life but the spirit. 
 
 "The matin: hour has come," slowly spoke the Su- 
 perior, and all, save Isabel, crossed themselves, folded 
 their arms, and followed each other in Indian file 
 through a long and poorly-lighted passage. A door 
 then admitted them into a little chapel, where, for the 
 first time, Isabel saw the implements (if we may so 
 call them) of Catholic worship, — the altar, the in- 
 cense, the crucifix, and the burning candles. With a 
 "Hail Mary" and the sign of the cross, they bowed 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 47 
 
 before the emblem of tbe Christian faith, — itself, we 
 fear, adored by them more than the Being ivho was 
 crucified upon it. During the long Latin prayers, 
 which were unmeaning at least to Mrs. Latour and 
 the domestics, Isabel remained apart ; for she honored 
 reh'gion too highly to join in what she considered 
 solemn mockery. The nuns either did not see, or, if 
 they saw, did not allow Isabel to know that they no- 
 ticed, this breach of their order. Matins being ended, 
 they returned in the same way as they came. Break- 
 fast — served much the same as in a genteel private 
 family — being over, they were taken for the first time 
 into the parlor. Here, also, all was green, — carpets, 
 sofa, and chair-seats. On each mantelpiece and table 
 and in every niche were crosses and images. The 
 walls were covered with pictures of saints, — some on 
 the rack and some in glory,— or of heretics in purga- 
 tory or perdition. The furniture was plain, but the 
 rooms were far from being devoid of ornament. Rich 
 vases with elaborate carving, massive silver crucifixes, 
 and the like, revealed to Isabel that the extreme pov- 
 erty in which Mrs. Latour had represented the house 
 and school to be was all a farce. This lady truly 
 believed what she stated. She was a widow, with a 
 fine estate, and a legion of "humble dependants," as 
 she called her slaves. Although a person of very 
 small mind, she was of a kind and generous nature. 
 As a true Catholic, she was much interested in the 
 establishment over which her aunt presided, and Isa- 
 bel knew that she gave largely towards its support. 
 
48 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 Sbe Tvas, however, much surprised to see her present 
 to the Sisters a silver flower-vase, elegantly wrought. 
 She called their attention to the fact that the flowers 
 upon it were an imitation of the passion-flower, every 
 part of which was an emblem of the passion of our 
 Saviour. Isabel concluded that she felt little care 
 now to retain her property, as her only child had 
 slept many a year in its little grave. She could 
 well remember the departed aa the beloved playmate 
 of her earliest years; and she now seemed like a 
 beautiful vision, with her dark ringlets, her deep, 
 soft, black eyes, and her spirit so full of the vivacity 
 of her father's vine-clad native home. Then she 
 remembered seeing Marie, or, as she was called, " La 
 petite Angele," in her coffin, and the agony which 
 filled the house, from the parlor to the hut, when 
 she was borne away. All this came to Isabel's 
 mind as she saw the rich vase, and she wished that 
 Marie were here to guide, as she surely would have 
 done, her kind weak mother. Mrs. Latour gave it as 
 a sacrifice to religion ; but the words, " Ought this not 
 rather to have been sold and given to the poor 7 " rose 
 in Isabel's mind, with far more purity and reason 
 than when spoken by the betrayer in reference to 
 our Lord's anointing. 
 
 One morning, after Isabel had been some days in 
 the agreeable society of Sister Agatha, she was enjoy- 
 ing herself ovei? some splendid French engravings 
 which that lady had presented to her, saying that 
 they were the property of a blessed young Sister from 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 49 
 
 France, who died in their house last year. After 
 giving a glowing description of the young stranger, in 
 which Isabel was deeply interested, she asked her 
 visitors to amuse themselves, as she should be much 
 engaged hereafter for the mornings. It was, she said, 
 a time of general sickness among the newly-arrived 
 emigrants, and Father MacRail had more applications 
 for advice and consolation than he could possibly 
 attend to, and had requested her to receive the females 
 who sought help of the Virgin in their hour of need. 
 Then, attaching a long cross and rosary to her side, 
 she left the room, closing the door behind her. Mrs. 
 Latour took her seat on the sofa, and, with a solemn 
 face, began reading her prayer-book half aloud, as if 
 for a wager. Now and then she would stop and 
 make some remark to Isabel about her hair or dress, 
 or the furniture of the room, and then proceed as if 
 she had never had an earthly thought to stain her 
 heart. The young girl stood a long time gazing out 
 at the open window, and wondering when and how she 
 should leave the house of the Sisters. While thus 
 absorbed in her own thoughts, she noticed that every 
 now and then a woman would stop before a black box 
 chained to the railing of the area, and, crossing 
 herself, drop in a piece of money. Then, imme- 
 diately after each offering, the door-bell would ring, 
 and the voice of the Sister in the hall was heard, 
 until the ring of the bell brought a new visitor. 
 Soon a young and pale girl, dressed in full mourning, 
 cast her eyes up to the window with a look which 
 4 
 
50 THE CONTENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 won the tender heart of Isabel. After she rang, and 
 Isabel heard the door shut behind her, there was a 
 burst of grief, loud and long. Then followed words 
 as if she were striving to talk in her emotion. 
 
 The holy Sister made several ineffectual attempts to 
 quiet the girl, who said in aloud voice, " Lady, I can- 
 not be calm ; the heart 's broke in me ! " This was fol- 
 lowed by fresh tears and deep sobs. Isabel could 
 endure it no longer, and raised her eyes to Mrs. 
 Latour ; but she had fallen asleep, with her book in her 
 hand. Isabel rose, thinking that at the worst she could 
 only be repulsed, and went into the hall. Her face 
 was the picture of real interest, and tears stood in her 
 eyes as she advanced towards the lady. 
 
 " Do tell me, madam," she said, " what is the mat- 
 ter with this poor girl." There was no frown for 
 her intrusion, as Isabel had feared ; for was not Sis- 
 ter Agatha now doing her best deeds ? and the wider 
 they were known, the better for her reputation. 
 
 "We will see, my daughter," she said, taking her 
 hand. 
 
 In answer to the questions asked her, the weeping 
 girl answered that her name was Mary Flynn, and 
 that she was child's maid and seamstress in the family 
 of Rev. Dr. Winthrop, where she had been very happy. 
 
 "And what brings you here this morning in so 
 much trouble, my child?" asked Sister Agatha, com- 
 passionately. 
 
 But silence, and the spasmodic choking which tells 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 51 
 
 of suppressed tears and of the groans of a burdened 
 spirit, were her only answer. 
 
 "Be composed, my daughter, and let me know 
 your sorrow," said the nun, calmly, but with a reso- 
 lute tone which implied a command ; "for other 
 mourners will soon be here, and demand my time. 
 What were you at home, Mary ?" 
 
 " My father was a decent farmer, lady ; but, when 
 the years grew bad, and all my companions were 
 coming away, they gave consent for me to come too, 
 thinking they would sell the cows and sheep and fol- 
 low me by another season. I promised God, on the 
 sea, that if He 'd only show me dry land again I 'd 
 never cill a dollar my own till I'd throw my two 
 arms round the necks of them I left behind me ; for 
 the sickness and fear on the sea, lady, taught me what 
 a father and mother was. When I began to earn 
 a little, the accounts got so bad from home, that 
 I had n't the heart to keep one pound by me, as I 
 thought to do, by way of a fund to send for them, 
 and to have a bit o' a room to take them to when 
 they 'd land. ■ But I sent it home, pound by pound, 
 as I got it, to keep them from throuble. The cows 
 were took for the rint, and my poor father thried every 
 way to get enough to bring him to me ; but every 
 neighbor we had was doing just the same thing, and 
 he could n't raise it. 0, then the heart-breaking let- 
 ters he wrote to me ! Then my masther said he 'd 
 advance money to pay my brother's passage, and 
 that the twos of us would soon earn enough to bring 
 
52 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 "the father and mother. When the money got there, 
 my mother wrote back to me that it would be like 
 tearing the heart from her bosom to take all the child 
 she had away from her over the sea. And she bid 
 me write to John not to come. ' I '11 never, never 
 see him again,' she said, ' if he goes widout us ; and, 
 if we must die, let us die together.' But, me, I 
 was the selfish girl, I was the cruel child ! I wrote 
 all about how happy I was, and, if he 'd only get con- 
 sent to come, we would soon send for them, and then 
 we 'd make them forget, in their old age, that they 
 ever heard o' throuble. So, after he got that letter, he 
 would hear to them no longer, but took my money and 
 come off. He landed here to-day's a week, and my 
 kind misthress gave me the day, and we went to 
 some people that lived convenient to me at home, to 
 carry the letters John brought. When we got up to 
 go, John, who had complained all day of his head, 
 could n't walk a foot, he was that dizzy. But, says 
 he, dear lad, ' Sure its little as ails me, forbye many 
 as came in the ship, and seven dacent boys were 
 thrown into the sea before they got sight o' their 
 friends.' He looked so ill, the good folk said they 'd 
 keep him all night. When I got leave to go to 
 him next day, he was so far in sickness that he 
 could n't spake, hardly. The people said he had the 
 ship-fever ; so I got a certificate from a doctor near by, 
 and hired a carriage. With the help of the man o' 
 the house, I got him to the hospital. I helped the 
 poor lad into a real clane cool bed, and the nurse 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 53 
 
 seemed to pity me. He said I 'd be let in to see Jotn 
 ■when I came again, if I asked for himself. Then I 
 bathed his head, poor boy ! and kissed him, and wint 
 away. In two days I wint again to his ward ; and 
 when I wint up to his bed the breathing was like a 
 strong man, so great hopes were in my heart, I 
 turned down the quilt; but, 0, dear heart! an old 
 man was sleeping there ! Then such a screech as 
 came from me brought the kind nurse, and he took 
 me to some women up stairs, who put me in a bed, 
 and no more did I know till next day, when the good 
 hospital doctor sint me home in his own chaise. My 
 brother died the day I left him ; but where he was 
 buried no one could tell me ; and thin my heart was 
 broke, and I can't eat, and I can't sleep ! Sure my 
 mother's heart tould her she 'd never see John any 
 more ! 0, they '11 niver comb gray hair, poor bodies ! 
 0, poor John ! 0, me ! " 
 
 "Repose to his soul ! " ejaculated Sister Agatha. 
 " Was he a true Catholic ? " 
 
 " 0, dear lady ! it 's that 's breaking my heart ! I 
 only saw him a few hours, and, I did n't ask him was 
 he faithful to his prayers on the sea. Now, I 'm as 
 throubled about his soul as about my poor father and 
 mother at home ! " 
 
 "And what brought you here, my child 7 " blandly 
 asked the lady. 
 
 "To see if the holy ladies would pray for the 
 repose of his soul ! " said Mary. 
 
54 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 " Could you come here to vespers for a few nights? " 
 asked the lady. 
 
 " No, lady ; it 's just as I 'd be putting the little 
 ones to bed. And I 've been out so much, I -would n't 
 like to ask my misthress ; but I '11 pay for the candles, 
 and anything else you like ; and I '11 say prayers all 
 the time, in my room, after eight o'clock." 
 
 " Does your mistress know about your trouble? " 
 Sister Agatha asked. 
 
 '"Deed she does, and treats me like a mother! 
 Sure she got out of her bed and came to me in the 
 dead o' the night, when she heard me crying about 
 John, and thried'to comfort me ! 0, but she 's the lov- 
 ing heart ! God bless her, and all as belongs to her ! ' ' 
 
 " Did she know you came here 7 " asked the nun, 
 looking into the girl's eyes, as if to read her secret 
 heart. 
 
 " She did," said Mary. "I got leave to be out 
 two hours. Herself staid up stairs, from company, 
 with the children." 
 
 " What did she say when you asked to come here ? " 
 
 Mary blushed, and looked confused; but, being 
 pressed for an answer, replied : " She said I 'd better 
 not come, lady ; that there was One who could give 
 thrue consolation in time of throuble ; and — " 
 
 '*' And what ? " asked the lady. 
 
 " That He who raised one Mary's brother would 
 pity me and help me too, without — " 
 
 " Without what ? " And the mild gray eyes be- 
 came piercing. 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 55 
 
 " Without money and witliout price ! " came as if 
 forced from Mary's lips. 
 
 "Did she ask you," inquired the nun, going close 
 to Mary, and speaking low, "if Father MacRail 
 required money for saying mass? " 
 
 " She did; and I tould her they did at home, but 
 I did n't know how it was in Ameriky." 
 
 " Do you go ever to their meeting, Mary 1 " 
 
 The girl looked embarr?issed, but made no reply. 
 
 gister Agatha could not ask the questions she 
 wished to ask before Isabel, and yet she felt it would 
 not do to request her to retire ; so she said, " Perhaps 
 you came for some spiritual advice, and would rather 
 see me quite alone 1 " 
 
 "No, lady; I only want prayers for John's soul 
 and some peace for my own mind ; for I 'm throubled 
 lest God tuk him to punish me for bringing him a,way 
 from his poor ouH father and mother ! " 
 
 " Perhaps," said the nun, in so low a tone as scarce 
 to be audible, " it was to punish you for sins against 
 the church that he was taken. I 'm afraid you have 
 not been true to your faith ! " 
 
 Mary hung her head, but made no reply. 
 
 " Can you read, my child?" asked the nun. 
 
 "'Deed I can; and write and cipher, too!" 
 replied Mary, raising her head with an air of con- 
 scious superiority over many of her countrywomen. 
 
 " Mrs. Latour calls you, my daughter," said Sister 
 Agatha to Isabel ; " and I should like to see this poor 
 troubled child alone for a few moments." 
 
56 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 Isabel had withstood hints and glances, but she 
 could remain in the hall no longer without positive 
 rudeness. As she closed the parlor-door, she heard 
 the voice of the nun in a whisper, which is far more 
 distinctly heard than low talking, " I wish you to tell 
 me, Mary, if you read the books and newspapers you 
 see in that house 1 " Mary replied that she did, some- 
 times. The nun then asked her if she had ever been 
 forced to go to church with her mistress. Mary 
 replied that she had been, once or twice, but not by 
 force. " It was my own blame, indeed, ma'am." 
 
 By this time they had reached the door ; and, as it 
 was opened by the nun, who was still talking, the sound 
 came directly to the open window at which Isabel was 
 sitting : ' ' Your mistress is trying to ruin your soul, as 
 she has' done her own. I know she forced you to go 
 to her meeting, or lose your place, — the persecutor ! 
 What did she say to you then ?" said Sister Agatha. 
 
 " She said, ma'am, that she 'd force nobody's con- 
 science to go in to prayers, or yet to go to her church. 
 But 0, lady ! she was that glad to see me there, that 
 she looked younger when I came home." 
 
 " I can talk no longer with you, Mary," said the 
 nun, "but I will think whether we had better have 
 prayers in the chapel for your brother's soul or not. 
 Come at day-break, and I will see you again and talk 
 with you. You may go, child ! " 
 
 " 0, holy lady ! " replied the poor girl, in a tremu- 
 lous voice, " I dread the night coming on ! I have 
 such fearful dreams of John ! 'Deed I can't be faith- 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 57 
 
 ful to my misthress, nor do my duty to anybody, till I 
 get peace to my mind ! " 
 
 "Then, if you cannot be faithful, I advise you to 
 leave your place," said Sister Agatha, carelessly. 
 " How much do you get a month, Mary 1 " 
 
 " Six dollars ; but I can't leave them, ma'am, for I 
 owe them nearly all the money for John's passage. I 
 have paid the two pounds I sent for my father at the 
 same time." 
 
 " But if your health has failed-you you catmot 
 repay them. No person can do more than he can. 
 A change of place would be the best thing for you. 
 I'll get you a place, Mary." 
 
 "Sure, lady, I'd as soon go through with the 
 parting I had with my mother again. And what 
 reason could I give for leaving a place where never a 
 child spoke a hard word to me in sixteen months ? " 
 
 "Your health, child, is reason enough; tell them 
 your health 's bad," said Sister Agatha. 
 
 " But, holy lady, if you please, my health is good, 
 and I 'm as strong as ever ! " said Mary. 
 
 "I can waste no more time with you," tartly 
 replied the lady ; "but you may come at day-break." 
 Then a low word was lost upon Isabel's ear ; but, 
 as poor Mary descended the steps, she saw the girl 
 snap the steel clasp of her little black velvet purse. 
 Yes, from her deep poverty, and with the sacrifice 
 of bleeding love for her parents who were in want of 
 it, Mary had put a dollar into the soft, white hand of 
 Sister Agatha ; and then she left, and bore back the 
 
68 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 same weight of sorrow on her heart. With the burden 
 still there, she must go through her daily duties. She 
 must smile at and caress the baby, and patiently bear 
 the trials which both mother and nurse must endure 
 with older children. Poor Mary ! there was One heart 
 full of pity near her ; One eye which had shed tears of 
 sympathy with a bereaved Mary over a brother dead. 
 But she knew it not ; and it were then in vain to tell 
 her that He would send the Comforter, for'she would 
 not dare believe the promise repeated by lips which 
 the holy wafer had never touched. 
 
 Isabel, as her quick ear caught the last words of 
 Sister Agatha, felt that the interview had been unsat- 
 isfactory to both. She had taken a great dislike to 
 the two nuns who taught the charity-school ; but on 
 the elder one she had looked with a different feeling. 
 She thought that she might have become a nun from 
 real principle, misguided by early education ; and, won 
 by her unceasing attention and sprightly conversation, 
 she had almost begun to love her. But this scene had 
 drawn aside the veil from her character, and the last < 
 lesson in deception, given in the name of religion to 
 this young stranger, made a deep impression on the 
 mind of Isabel. 
 
 At dinner the elder nun interested the other 
 ladies with the stories of some of her visitors, and 
 mentioned, with many comments and explanations, 
 Mary's case, as if she had forgotten that Isabel was 
 present at part of the interview. She concluded her 
 remarks by saying, " Poor child ! she ought not to have 
 
THli! CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 59 
 
 her rest disturbed by cbildren ; and, -were not our house 
 under such a pressure just now, I would take her in 
 myself, — I would shelter this homeless stranger." 
 
 " Would it be right," asked Isabel, " to take her 
 from a home where she is so kindly treated, and that 
 while she owes a debt of honor to her employer 1 " 
 
 " Her first duty is to regain her health, and she 
 will then be in a fairer way of doing justice to those to 
 whom she is indebted than by toihng on till she dies 
 on their hands ! " replied Sister Agatha, looking at Isa- 
 bel with a look quite unlike her usual sweet expres- 
 sion. Her eyes were opened to see that petting Isabel 
 like a spoiled child would not win her over to their 
 hands, but that hers was one of those minds which, 
 to be led at pleasure, must be blindfolded. 
 
 Another morning dawned on Isabel, and the ala- 
 baster clock in the parlor struck out long and loud the 
 matin-hour. After half an hour's delay, which Isabel 
 thought quite contrary to the rules of the order. 
 Sister Agatha denounced the faithless Mary, and the 
 party went into the chapel. Isabel had requested to 
 be excused from morning prayers, and gladly was her 
 request complied with; for the Sisters plainly saw that 
 they were on the wrong track for her, and wished to 
 have further conference with Mrs. Latour on the case. 
 Therefore they were careful not to arouse her feelings 
 against themselves, hoping yet to win her. 
 
 Isabel sat at the parlor-window, all absorbed in her 
 own thoughts, and trying to decide whether she should 
 yield to Mrs. Latour's second thought, and remain 
 
60 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 with Sister Agatha, or proceed to the nunnery, where 
 a positive agreement had been made for her. This 
 latter she thought the right course, and she therefore 
 resolved to go thither. 
 
 A slight movement without rattled the chain which 
 confined the charity-box to the iron railing, and, look- 
 ing round, Isabel saw the poor girl who had so deeply 
 interested her the preceding day dropping her toil- 
 gained offering into the box. Then came a timid ring, 
 and Isabel fearlessly opened the door. Mary smiled, 
 as if she felt a relief when she saw the sweet face, 
 and asked, " Am I too late, lady 1 One of the chil- 
 dren was ill last night, and herself did not go to bed 
 till three o' clock, so I could not leave the baby till she 
 rose up." 
 
 " You are too late for themOming prayers, Mary," 
 replied Isabel, " but you can pray for yourself ; God 
 will hear you as soon as them ! " 
 
 " But, iny poor brother's soul! " exclaimed Mary, 
 clasping her hands, and raising her streaming eyes to 
 h^ven. " Sure God wouldn't hear me if I was so 
 selfish as not to get his soul out of purgatory ! " 
 
 "My poor girl," said Isabel, "the Bible is the 
 only book which reveals a future state, and that says 
 not a word of purgatory. We shall be punished for 
 our own sins, but not for our friends neglecting us 
 when we are gone. Do you think a just God will 
 send all the souls to hell who have been called into 
 his presence this summer by this fever, simply because 
 they had no friends to pray for them ? No, Mary ; 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 61 
 
 He is the God of the stranger. Poor and rich are 
 alike in his sight ; and money paid for the mass -will 
 never save a soul. Christ alone can do that ; you 
 must go to him. The state of your brother's soul is 
 fixed for eternity ; all the money in the world would 
 not avail to move God's hand, and you must submit 
 to His will. I beg you will not waste your money, 
 but send it home to your parents, that they may be a 
 comfort to you, and you to them ! " Thus the child 
 of many prayers, and taught faithfully in the Scrip- 
 ture, strove to console another with the blessed 
 doctrines which she herself could not fully lay hold 
 upon. 
 
 " 0, that's sweet talk, lady ! " replied the girl, with 
 a look of wonder, " and it seems to lift a load off my 
 heart ; but it 's the very same words that my mistress 
 says to me, only I was afraid to believe her, because 
 she was a Protestant. But I'm sure she'll go to 
 heaven, dear heart ! — wont she? God will forgive her 
 for that ! " 
 
 " Yes, my poor girl ; I do not doubt she will go 
 there. My mother was, 0, how like Christ ! and she 
 was a true Protestant. She is in heaven, I know ; for 
 she was so like heaven before she went ! " And the 
 beautiful Isabel bowed her head, and mingled her tears 
 with those of the lowly Irish girl. As there were 
 none to see her weep but a wounded spirit like her 
 own, she did not restrain her tears till her heart, 
 like the cloud after the shower, was lightened of its 
 burden, and the sun shone through again. 
 
62 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 " Sure the holy lady may be angered with me, 
 ■when she comes, for being late 1" said Mary, inquir- 
 ingly- 
 
 " No doubt she will be ; so you had better go home 
 to your duties, and pray to God for yourself. Here 
 is a five-dollar piece for you. Carry it home to your 
 mistress, and tell her it is so much towards sending 
 for your mother. I know the worth of a mother, 
 Mary, and want all those who have one to enjoy such 
 love while they can. But remember, Mary, if your 
 parents die for want of what you spend for masses, 
 God will require their life at your hands ! " 
 
 " Sure my heart's broke, and my head's wild, too!" 
 said the poor girl. " God knows, if I knew the true 
 way, I'd be willing to walk in it ! " And, with such 
 warm thanks as the Irish alone can bestow, Mary 
 departed. 
 
 "Did the bell not ring while we were at our 
 prayers, my daughter?" asked Sister Agatha of Isa- 
 bel, at the breakfast-table. 
 
 "It did," replied Isabel. "The young girl in 
 black, who was here yesterday, came to tell you that 
 sickness in the family prevented her fulfilling her 
 promise to come at daybreak." 
 
 "Sickness!" exclaimed the nun. "I have no 
 confidence in that girl. She has either forsaken, 
 or, at least, proved unfaithful to, her religion; and 
 now, in trouble, she is glad to fly back to the only 
 refuge. I shall have nothing to do with her unless 
 she calls to night. She shall be cast oif in her hour 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 63 
 
 of need, as a warning to others. I despise one wlio 
 proves traitor to the religion of his fathers ! " 
 
 " Then," said Isabel, smiling at Sister Agatha, " I 
 must be careful not to lose your esteem by becoming 
 a Catholic." 
 
 '" Ah ! " said the pale-faced nun, who seldom spoke, 
 "it is only when those parents have been them- 
 selves reared in the true faith that desertion is 
 traitorous. " 
 
 " Well," replied Isabel, "my mother was a Prot- 
 estant, and she was a lovely example of the power of 
 her faith." 
 
 The nuns exchanged glances. Sister Agatha began 
 to think the nunnery the .best place for Isabel, and 
 was glad to yield her up, money and all, to more 
 resolute hands. 
 
 After breakfast, Mrs. Latour proposed a walk. 
 Isabel joyfttlly assented, for she thought she Avas 
 entirely shut out from the world. As they passed out 
 the door, they encountered the box which Isabel had 
 seen from the window. On the front, and facing the 
 street, was this inscription, in gilt letters : " For 
 THE Sick and Dying, Visited by the Sisters of 
 Charity." " Ah, my love," asked the simple-minded 
 lady, as she saw Isabel reading it, "is not theirs a 
 holy, self-denying life ?" 
 
 " Not half so much so as my mother's was ! " re- 
 plied the young girl. " I saw all those poor creatures 
 who called yesterday give money, but I doubt if they 
 
64 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 received any. Did you think they were aided mth. 
 food and clothing?" she asked of Mrs. Latour. 
 
 "No; but with spiritual things, my love." 
 
 " Then, why this box'.'" asked Isabel. 
 
 " To aid in supporting this house, my love. What 
 could sustain these holy women while giving their 
 time to this work of love, were not some such means 
 resorted to?" 
 
 "Just as I thought, Mrs. Latour," replied the 
 shrewd girl to the simple-hearted lady's confession. 
 "I could, however, improve their inscription on the 
 box. I would say, ' Foe the Sistees of Chaeitt, 
 Visited by the Poor and Sick.' " 
 
 Mrs. Latour laughed, and said she never saw a 
 Protestant who could see through her religion. Her 
 own soft heart and elastic spirit had not retained the 
 iron impress of her creed. She could love and honor 
 friends and neighbors who were not of her own faith. 
 
 They had now reached a 'public street, and Mrs. 
 Latour said, in a subdued tone, " Dear Isabel, you 
 know I have always loved you, for the sake of La 
 petite Angele. I used to think I would give you the 
 rich cross and rosary her father bought for her in Paris, 
 when you were old enough to take good care of them ; 
 but my aunt requested me to bestow them on the Sis- 
 ters, as they were blessed by a French bishop, — so I 
 could not refuse. I always intended to make you a 
 present for the love you bore to Marie Angele. Come 
 into this store, and select a jewelled cross to wear on 
 your chain. They are very fashionable just now." 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 65 
 
 "Thank you, dear Mrs. Latour," said Isabel; "I 
 will gladly accept and treasure up some little gift in 
 remembrance of the only little companion I eyer had, 
 save my sister. But I could not wear a cross as an 
 ornament ! " 
 
 " Why not, my love? Crosses are all the fashion. 
 Even Jewish ladies wore them at Mrs. Hart's ball, 
 and a great many Protestants." 
 
 "The more shame to them!" said Isabel, as they 
 walked past the store slowly. " The Catholics have 
 a superstitious veneration for the cross, and many 
 of them believe it will charm away all that is evil. 
 But, how Protestants can wear this emblem of the 
 Saviour's cruel death into scenes of vain amusement, 
 where one thought of Him whose memory makes it 
 precious would be unwelcome, I cannot conceive., 
 It has always seemed to me not only in bad taste, but 
 almost sacrilege, to wear a cross for fashion's sake. 
 Pardon me, dear Mrs. Latour ; but you know I always 
 speak my mind." 
 
 Mrs. Latour looked sad and drew a sigh. " But," 
 she said, " you will go into the next store with me, 
 and accept something we can agree upon?" 
 
 " Indeed I will, and feel very grateful for your 
 kindness," said Isabel, who feared she had wounded 
 her Mend's feelings. They entered the store, and 
 the well-meaning lady, after tempting Isabel in vain 
 with crosses and rosaries, purchased a rich brooch for 
 her, and a ring, to be sent to her little favorite, Vir- 
 ginia. 
 
 5 
 
66 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 They extended their ■walk some distance ; and, as the 
 mention of no disputed topic marred the pleasure, it 
 was pleasant and invigorating to both. They returned 
 to the house of the Sisters of Charity in time for 
 dinner. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 " She bore herself 
 So gently, that the lily on its stalk 
 Bends not so easily its dewy head." 
 
 " Which hand will you have ?" exclaimed Sam, as 
 he entered his mother's room, where the girls were 
 seated ready for their lessons. " Right or left, Vir- 
 ginia 1 — right or left, Anna ? " 
 
 "Have you been to the post-office'?" asked Jane, 
 in a trembling voice. 
 
 " I have," replied gam. 
 
 " Have you any letters for me.? " 
 
 "No letters!" 
 
 "Have you a letter, then, Sam 7 Why will you be 
 such a tease? Let me have it, — please, brother, do." 
 And she put her hand into his pocket. But Sam was 
 too wise for her, — it was not there. 
 
 "I've got something for everybody but myself." 
 
 "0, dear Sam, don't be so silly!" said Jane, 
 trying to wash her slate ; " it 's almost time to begin 
 our lessons, and we shall not like to hinder Ma, by 
 reading letters, when she is ready for us." 
 
 " No," said Sam " that would be quite out of the 
 
68 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 way for a good conscientious girl, like you ; so wait till 
 your lessons are over for your letter with a foreign 
 stamp, if I have such a one for you." 
 
 " I believe you are making a fool of me, — I- don't 
 think the Cambria is in, at all ! " 
 
 " Wellj" said Sam, " if she is not, then there is no 
 letter." 
 
 " Have you any for me, coz ?" asked Virginia. " I 
 entreat you to tell me, for I have not Jane's saint- 
 like patience." 
 
 He drew from his bosom a letter, and read, " Miss 
 Virginia Mclver, care of Kev. Mr. Vail, Brookside, 
 Mass." 
 
 "0, my darling Isabel ! " cried Virginia, running 
 into her own room to read it. 
 
 " The Cambria has arrived, and here is a letter 
 for you, Jane ! I brought one, too, for the old doc- 
 tor. Did n't he hop, when he saw me coming into 
 the front yard, though ! He forgot the gout and the 
 crutches. The old lady took off her glasses, to be 
 able to cry without diflSculty while he was reading it 
 to her. Don't they love Dick, though? " 
 
 Poor Jane held her letter with a trembling hand 
 while Sam was pouring forth his nonsense. She had 
 not courage to run and hide, as did Virginia with her 
 treasure. Sam saw her embarrassment, and his love 
 of sport gave way to the truly noble spirit which 
 prompted him to leave the room. 
 
 When Mrs. Vail took her seat to hear the morning 
 lessons, little Charlie, the only little child in the 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. by 
 
 house, came in -with a slip of paper on which waa 
 written, " Will dear mamma please excuse me from 
 her room this morning 7 — Jane." 
 
 "Tell her, yes, Charlie ; and hasten back," said the 
 mother. 
 
 Virginia looked bright and happy, but was impa- 
 tient to tell all her sister wrote. Her aunt said it 
 would delay the lessons, and so the reading of her 
 letter was reserved till dinner-time. " Letters' from 
 those we love are little ministering angels, are they 
 not 1 " Mrs. Vail asked, smiling, as she looked into 
 Virginia's beaming face. 
 
 Dinner, which at the parsonage was always more 
 like a joyous meeting than like the mere " feeding " 
 which takes place in many families, at last came. 
 Mamma in her neat morning-dress and cap ; papa with 
 study-gown, and hair thrown back, which showed 
 where his fingers had found employment while his 
 brain was busy; cheerful, joyous, bustling Anna, 
 tying on Charlie's bib and cutting his meat; prince- 
 like Sam, carving for his weary father, and stealing 
 glances at the little southern beauty seated opposite 
 to him ; — all these at a neatly-spread table in the 
 cheerful dining-room, — was it not a pretty picture 1 
 There was no haste, as if they were eating for a 
 wager, or expecting every moment the exorbitant call 
 of a factory-bell ; for everything here was done in its 
 proper time, and the dinner-hour was as a resting- 
 place between morning and afternoon duties. 
 
TO THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 " Nora, will you take this cup of tea and piece of 
 toast up to Miss Jane ?" said Mrs. -.Vail. 
 
 " I thought something was wrong at table to- 
 day," said Virginia. "Jane is not here. — is she 
 sick?" 
 
 " She does not feel just right, my love, and I 
 wished her to lie down," said Mrs. Vail. 
 
 Sam and Virginia saw that the older members of 
 the family were in possession of a secret ; but they 
 said nothing. ' ' 
 
 "Now, Virginia, let's hear about Isa," said her 
 aunt, trying to look cheerful. " What does she say 1 " 
 
 " Shall I read, or tell you, auntie ?" 
 
 " Tell, by all means; and then you can kill two birds 
 with one stone, as you can eat between your words," 
 said Sam. 
 
 " Well, her letter has made me really happy, for I 
 had almost feared to open it. She is at the house of 
 the Sisters of Charity, with our kind old neighbor, Mrs. 
 Latour. She says that after she leaves there and 
 goes to the convent she may never have a chance to 
 write all she wishes, as no letter goes out or comes 
 in without the Superior's inspection. She says she 
 is amused and astonished, rather than cast down ; and 
 I 'm glad of that, for Isa is such an odd child, and 
 speaks out her mind so plain, that I feared she would 
 make the nuns hate her, so that they' would haindcuff 
 and muzzle her before they had found how worthy she 
 was of their love. She says both eyes and ears are 
 open, and she shall have much to reveal, although 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 71 
 
 for ten days they have been much more reserved and 
 guarded before her than at first. She says that after . 
 hearing a true-hearted Irish girl refuse to implicate 
 her Protestant mistress in the sin she committed in 
 attending church with her little ones, she longed to tell 
 everybody to deal tenderly and pitifully with these 
 faithful but misguided ones. Ah ! she says, little 
 do Protestant families know how their affairs are 
 laid open before these priests and nuns, and how one 
 domestic is encouraged to watch and report any such 
 breach of Catholic duty as attending Protestant 
 church, or family prayers, in her fellow-domestics ! If 
 they ascertain that a girl is beloved in a family, they 
 insist on her striking for more wages, that she may 
 thus more abundantly aid the holy cause. The most 
 wretched pauper emigrant gives what he perhaps 
 begged for bread from a Protestant, but none receive 
 a copper from their funds. And, 0, their forms and 
 ceremonies ! She says that our own form of worship, 
 discarding every rite and ordinance which is not laid 
 down in God's word, never appeared so beautiful in 
 its simplicity as now. She says, tell dear aunt and 
 uncle that there is little danger of her bowing the 
 knee to Baal, or receiving the mark of the beast in 
 her forehead. 
 
 "So thought Gen. Gray," said Mr. Vail. "His 
 daughter's ambition was united with his own, and she 
 thought that by going to the convent to finish her 
 education she was in no danger of becoming a Catho- 
 lic, and might thereby secure thousands of votes 
 
72 THE CONVENT AJfD THE MANSE. 
 
 which would elevate her father, and thus his children, 
 above the people. Our . hearts are deceitful ; and, 
 even when our motives are pure, we are liable to be 
 led astray through error of judgment. ' Let him 
 that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.' We 
 are frail creatures." 
 
 " But, what about the daughters of Gen. Gray 1 " 
 asked Virginia. " My aunt met them last summer 
 at the Springs. She admired them very much ; and 
 they, as well as Mrs. Latour, were very anxious to 
 have us both go to the convent. Aunt said the nuns 
 had made them the most perfect ladies she ever met." 
 
 " They are very intelligent and refined," said Mr. 
 Vail; " but no thanks to the convent for that. They 
 were both past twenty when they went there, and had 
 been educated atone of our first schools. They, no doubt, 
 spent most of their time in the nunnery at ornamental 
 branches, and in general reading. Their polished 
 manners are attributable rather to the society in which 
 they have mingled from childhood. Their father, hav- 
 ing some prospect of election to an office of state, and 
 knowing the power of the Catholic vote, sent them to 
 the convent. But the wise man was taken in his 
 own craftiness. This was done too late to secure Cath- 
 olic votes, as it did not become generally known till 
 after the voters had received their orders for the polls. 
 Years have passed since then, and he has again the 
 prospect of an election. His eldest daughter still 
 attends the mass, and now he thinks he has clear 
 ground on both sides of the fence." 
 
CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 From yon blue heavens above us bent, 
 
 The gardener Adam and his wife 
 
 Smile at the claims of long descent. 
 
 Howe'er it be, it seems to me 
 
 'T is only noble to be good. 
 
 Kind hearts are more than coronets. 
 
 And simple faith than Norman blood. 
 
 Tbnntson. 
 
 " Come. Sam ! " called Mrs. Vail to her son, who, 
 with Virginia, was feeding his young rabbits, "I want 
 you to go down to Aunty Fosdick's, and see if 
 she has any fresh eggs to spare. Could you take 
 another basket, and get some of her golden pippins ? " 
 
 " Aunt, let me go, and carry one basket ; — may 
 I?" asked Virginia. 
 
 " It is a mile from here, my dear ; can you walk so 
 far?" 
 
 " 0, yes ! " said Virginia. " Pa used to take long, 
 long walks with us. We used to go up on the moun- 
 tains after minerals and moss ; we haye thick shoes, on 
 purpose, and I brought mine with me." 
 
 After a smile of consent from Mrs. Vail, she began 
 to equip herself, and they soon set oflf. 
 
 " Sam," said Virginia, after they had left the house, 
 
74 THK CONYENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 " what has happened? That letter you gave dear 
 Jane, this morning, certainly has troubled her. Uncle 
 and aunt have looked distressed all day." 
 
 " I don't knovfwhat it is," said Sam. " You know 
 that Jane corresponds with Dick Campbell, the doc- 
 tor's son. At school they used to be great friends, and, 
 after they grew up, he was always here ; that is, after 
 he got so big that Ma was ashamed to send him home. 
 He 's been away now two years, walking the hos- 
 pitals, as they call it, in France and Germany. He 's 
 quite a man of the world ; rather too much so for Pa 
 and Ma. Has family belong to the other church, and 
 are not near so strict in religious things as our people. 
 He said once that the only thing Jane lacked to 
 make her perfect was more vivacity ; but, since he 
 went away, she has far less. You know she has joined 
 the church; and perhaps his letter was so full of non- 
 sense that it made her unhappy ; or, she may think 
 he will not like the change in her." 
 
 " Is he handsome, Sam 1 " asked Virginia. 
 
 "The ladies all think so," said the boy ; " but he 
 looks, to me, as if he had been taking too many of his 
 own pills ! " 
 
 " Is he tall, Sam? — when is he coming home 1 " 
 
 "He is tall, and is to return in a few months. 
 You know doctors often have strange views of reli- 
 gion, and I believe there's something wrong in Dick's 
 theology ; but I don't remember what. Maybe that's 
 what troubles Jane. She wants every one to be as 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 75 
 
 good as herself. Isn't she a saint, Virginia? — 
 always so sweet ! " 
 
 "Yes, she is, Sam," said the young girl; "and 
 when she smiles she looks just like Ma. You don't 
 rememher my mother, do you, Sam 7 " 
 
 " No, I was so young when she was here ; hut it 
 seems as if I did, I 've heard so much about her. 
 Does Ma look like her ? " 
 
 " Yes, and seems very much like her, only not so 
 sad." 
 
 " What made her look sad 1 " asked the boy. 
 
 " I don't know, unless it was because none of her 
 friends at home — Pa and Aunt Jessie — were Chris- 
 tians." 
 
 " Are you and Isabel Christians 1 " asked Sam. 
 
 This was a hard question. " I don't know," replied 
 Virginia. " It is said, ' He that is not with me is 
 against me ; ' and I 'm sure I 'm not against Christ. 
 I think I love him. But, I'm afraid, Sam, that 
 although my heart is not near so bad as many peo- 
 ple's, I 'm not such a Christian as my mother was, 
 and yours, and old Mrs. Rose, and — " 
 
 "And Jane," said Sam. 
 
 "Yes," said Virginia, who now remembered and 
 understood why Mrs. Vail charged Jane in particular 
 to pray for Isabel. 
 
 " I know I 'm not a Christian," said Sam, " because 
 I love the world so well. I can't deceive myself. I 
 do not enjoy the society of good people so well as that 
 of the gay and lively. I feel the time tedious even 
 
76 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 in church, unless Pa preaches about some narrative or 
 biography. But I hope some time I shall have done 
 sowing my wild oats. Dear mother ! she could hardly 
 die happy unless her children were all converted. If 
 my mother were in heaven, as yours is, Virginia, I'm 
 sure I 'd try hard to go there, too ! " 
 
 " There 's more reason why you' should strive now, 
 for you have her to help you, Sam. If my dear Ma 
 were only alive to guide me, I think I should by this 
 time have been more like her." 
 
 And thus the children talked in their few sober 
 moments, — the self-righteous girl and the earth-lov- 
 ing boy, — until, turning down a little by-road which 
 led along beside a stream, they saw in the distance an 
 old brown cottage, over which two huge elms clasped 
 their branches, as if to bid defiance to rain or wind, 
 and to shield their humble charge beneath from harm 
 and danger. 
 
 "That's the place!" said Sam, pointing to it; 
 "they're at home ! " 
 
 " How do you know that 1 " asked Jiis cousin. 
 
 " Do you see the little window opening on the 
 porch ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " "Well, do you see that the little white curtain is 
 drawn down?" 
 
 "-Yes." 
 
 "Well, when they go away from home they draw 
 the curtain close, and this is an infallible sign." 
 
 "Who are these poor people ? " asked Virginia. 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 77 
 
 " You are much mistaken, if you think they are 
 poor. They own this farm you see stretching all 
 around, two cows and a horse ; but, such a horse ! 
 Some time you shall have a ride behind him ; it would 
 be hardly safe or comfortable to mount his back, his 
 gait is so very peculiar. — no, I forgot — he's dead! 
 I '11 tell you how Hippyty Hop departed this life. It 
 was quite an event in these parts. One Sabbath 
 morning, while the good old man, his master, was har- 
 nessing him to go to church, he expired in his hands. 
 Verdict : — Decay of nature." 
 
 " What makes them live in such an old house, if 
 they are not poor 1 " 
 
 " Because they love it ; they are very proud of its 
 age, and of the ancient elms that stretch their branches 
 over it. The way they came to have such a queer- 
 shaped house, with only one door, and that leading 
 into the kitchen, was this. It was built by his own 
 hands before he was married, when just starting 
 in the world. He was not very well off, but resolved 
 to pay for every board and nail before he used them. 
 He meant what you see for the kitchen part, intending, 
 as he was able, to build a front. But I suppose that 
 during the honey-moon the idea of a larger house only 
 suggested the separation of loving hearts. Very likely 
 he asked her, as did somebody or other in Lalla 
 Kookh his love, — ' Would that be world enough for 
 thee 1 ' She probably said it would ; and there, Vir- 
 ginia, have they lived together for sixty years, and sent 
 out into the world some dozen decent, hard-working. 
 
78 ■ THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 tf ue-hearted men and women, to honor and bless their 
 dd age." 
 
 The two cousins had wandered along the stream 
 till they reached the moss-grown stone wall of Mr. 
 FosdicFs garden, when, lifting a wooden latch, they 
 entered and walked towards the house. After stand- 
 ing a moment to admire the noble elms planted by 
 hands long since crumbled to dust, they knocked at 
 the door, and opened it at the bidding of a cheerful 
 " Come in." Virginia was about drawing back from 
 what she thought a private scene ; but the old lady 
 called to her, " Come in, child, and take a cheer ; 
 he 's a combing my hair for me. Since I 've got so 
 old it makes my arms ache to do it, and my children 's 
 all gone now." • 
 
 Virginia advanced, and took the old lady's proffered 
 hand. He, as Mrs. Fosdick always called her kind 
 old husband, laid the comb down on het shoulder 
 while he shook hands with the young visitors, and 
 then resumed his work of love. The old lady tied on 
 her cap, and then said, "I'm ashamed to have you 
 see him looking so. He 's been a' hoeing potatoes all 
 morning just as he is. Wh«n he was done I told him 
 to dress up ; but I reckon he was too tired, — old folks 
 get tired soon. Come, father, suppose you go and 
 rig up a little, now." 
 
 " ! where 's the use," said the old man, archly, 
 '•' now they 've seen me 1 Wish I had took your 
 advice afore they come; but, if I should go to the 
 bother of doing it now, they would n't forget how I 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 79 
 
 looked when they come. My woman 's getting proud," 
 he said, with a smile. " She used to let me go to the 
 post-office, when we was young, just as I came from the 
 field. Is this here the young lady from the southern 
 country, your mother told about, Sam?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Sam, "it's my cousin, Virginia 
 Mclver." 
 
 "I seed your mother once," said the old man. 
 " Didn't she take tea here, ma'am, a dozen years ago 
 or so, with Miss Vail?" 
 
 " Yes," said the old lady, " but it 's more than that; 
 'twas afore this child was born." 
 
 "Got a good many black folks, down your way, 
 han't you? " asked Mr. Fosdick. 
 
 " A great many," replied Virginia. 
 
 " You beat 'em a good deal, don't you 1 " he asked. 
 
 " /" don't," said Virginia, smiling. 
 
 " Your father, I mean." 
 
 " No, indeed," said Virginia. " I never saw him 
 whip one." 
 
 " You keep a man a purpose to beat yourn, I sup- . 
 pose. I 've hearn tell that the rich ones did." 
 
 "Ours are never whipped,"- said Virginia; "they 
 are too good to need it. We have but few. One man 
 has gone abroad to take care of Pa, and three are at 
 home taking care of the house." 
 
 "Things look pretty mis'able, down your way, don't 
 they? " asked Mr. Fosdick. 
 
 " In what respect, sir ? " 
 
80 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 " Han't the land all run out ? " 
 
 " Run out ! — wliat 's that 1 " said Virginia. 
 
 Bam threw in a few words by way of explanation, 
 when the young girl replied, " I never heard anything 
 about it." 
 
 "Why, that's queer ! I heard you could buy a 
 splendid farm, near a market, for five or six dollars 
 an acre, and that a Yankee could renew it with 
 manure so as to double its value in one year. Some 's 
 gone there a' ready." 
 
 "Isn't that in Virginia, Mr. Fosdick?" asked 
 Sam. "My uncle lives further south." 
 
 " Well, maybe so, — I don't know much about the 
 country out there ; 'tis where the slaves is, though. I 
 know more about the western country ; our children 's 
 all gone there and got homes of their own. That 's 
 a great country!" 
 
 " It certainly is," replied Sam, " a paradise for 
 farmers." 
 
 " Well, them's rich folks, off there to the south; 
 got enough of this world's goods, and high blood in 
 'em, too. Buthowsever, my boy, I would n't change 
 places with 'em. no ! " he added, with a smile, 
 " I 'm nothing but a plain farmer, children. That 's 
 all that my forefathers was afore me, and all my pro- 
 ginetors will be arter me. But we was all honest 
 farmers, and hard-working ones too. You can't tell 
 what my place was twenty years ago, afore I got so old 
 and the boys went west. I tell you, we kept things 
 straight, and the pastures looked like velvet. I 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 81 
 
 always striv to do my duty, and I believe I 'm as 
 faithful now ttat I only work four hours a day, as 
 when I worked fifteen. God an't a hard master ; He 
 don't require no more of his children than He gives 
 'em strength to do. 
 
 ' Even down to old age all His people shall prove, 
 His sovereign, eternal, unchangeable lore; 
 And when Tioary hairs shall their temples adorn, 
 Ijike lambs in His bosom they still shall be borne,' " 
 
 The old man rose when he repeated the last two 
 lines, and the children looked at his radiant face in 
 surprise. 
 
 " That 's true ;" he continued, " and I 'd rather 
 have a clear conscience than to own the whole arth 
 and everybody on it. That slavery I don't think much 
 on, nohow. It 's agin my principles altogether, and — " 
 
 " Look here, father," said the old lady, gently lay- 
 ing her hand on his arm, " 'tan't nothing this child 
 can help." 
 
 " But, ma'am, the time 's a coming when she can 
 help it, and maybe then she '11 remember what the old 
 man in Brookside said." 
 
 " I 'm sure I shall never forget it," said Virginia, 
 looking up reverentially to the faded face of Father 
 Fosdick. 
 
 There was a little break in the conversation, when 
 Mr. Fosdick inquired of Virginia, "Is your father 
 an Irishman 1 " 
 
 "My father an Irishman! No, indeed, sir," an- 
 swered the girl. 
 
 6 
 
82 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 " Why, he 's a Catholic, an't he7 " 
 
 " No, sir, he is not ; he is far from it." 
 
 " !Did n't we hear that he was goin to shut up one 
 of his gals in a convent, ma'am 7 " 
 
 "Yes," said the old lady. " Sally Jones said she 
 heard so." 
 
 Sam and Virginia attempted an explanation, and 
 apologized for Isabel's strange situation as best they 
 could; but they did not satisfy themselves, neither 
 could the simple-minded old couple comprehend them. 
 They seemed to think that convent. Catholic, and 
 Irish, were synonymous words, and Mr. Fosdick 
 wound up by asking how long since her father came 
 over. 
 
 It was now four o'clock, and the old lady began 
 bustling round to get tea ; but they assured her they 
 would be expected home, and must go. The eggs 
 were put in the basket, and, as the pippins were not 
 ripe enough to eat, Mrs. Fosdick loaded Virginia's 
 basket with all sorts of good things for " the folks to 
 hum." But, to Virginia's eyes, the style in which 
 they were prepared was truly primitive. 
 
 When they reached the little brook again, Sam 
 selected two clean stones for seats, and they began to 
 examine the contents of the basket. " Let 's have a 
 picnic ! " he said. "Here 's a pie and a baked chicken, 
 and lots of doughnuts ; but, ! how funny they all 
 look, — the very rooster looks old-fashioned ; quite 
 unlike the modern worthies which were baked in Ma's 
 fiery furnace a few days after you came." 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 83 
 
 And then, in their innocent glee, they spread a 
 newspaper from Sam's pocket on the ground, and par- 
 took of Mrs. Fosdick's bounty. 
 
 " You must not think," said Sam, " that these are 
 the elite of Brookside, cousin. We have many 
 wealthy and educated families ; there are several 
 yonng girls of your age, who ■will call on you after 
 you have had time to shake the dust off your travel- 
 ling dress. But, if you are going to live at the par- 
 sonage, you must make yourself agreeable to all sorts 
 of people." 
 
 "Why, Sam, though I have not seen any of the 
 elite oi whom you speak," said Virginia, '"do you 
 know I 'm perfectly delighted with those I have seen. 
 Such people as at home we should call vulgar, among 
 you are truly interesting for their originality. The 
 conversation of this Mr. and Mrs. Fosdick, and of 
 Mrs. Rose, is a perfect feast for me; for I never 
 met with the like before, — such beautiful simple 
 affection for each other, and love to God." 
 
 "Jane thinks such people enjoy far more, and 
 suffer far less, than those in a higher class. Is she 
 right?" asked Sam. 
 
 "She maybe,'" answered Virginia; "but let me 
 suffer more, and enjoy less, rather than fall to their 
 level." 
 
 "Ah! the falling! that would change the matter 
 altogether. They were never up where we are," said 
 Sam, smiling, " or the remembrance of it would make 
 
84 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 their present life wretched. How many books do you 
 think Father Fosdick has?" 
 
 " Perhaps not twenty," replied Virginia. 
 
 " He has a Bible (and uses it too), The Village 
 Hymns, Bunyan's Pilgrim, and copies of the Alma- 
 nac back from the flood, all hung by a twine string on 
 a nail in the corner." 
 
 " Sam, you ought to show him uncle's library." 
 
 " He 's seen it ; he said he told a book-agent that 
 he need n't call to the ' parsonage-house,' for the min- 
 ister had more books now than he could ever live to read 
 through. I suppose he thought that the Greek and 
 Hebrew Lexicons were to be read, as we read ' Uncle 
 Tom,' without taking breath." 
 
 " Well, the truth is, from the little I 've seen here, 
 I 'm enraptured with the Yankees ; the height of my 
 ambition is to become a genuine Yankee girl. , Ma 
 used to tell me about the young ladies in her father's 
 congregation who stood at the wash-tub. or made but- 
 ter, or scrubbed floors, all the morning, and played 
 the piano, and read and studied, afternoons." 
 
 "Poor things!" exclaimed Sam; "they had no 
 black folks to scrub and wash for them, — to toil by 
 day, and sleep on the floor by night. Why did n't 
 you bring one with you 1 Was you afraid Pa would 
 help her off to Canada 1 The underground railroad 
 runs pretty near our house." 
 
 " No, indeed," said Virginia; " I did not need one, 
 and we knew that Molly, who has always taken care 
 of us, would not like to leave her children, and also 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 85 
 
 that it would be a trouble to aunt. Did n't I tell you, 
 Sam, I came with the full intention of becoming a 
 Yankee girl 1 You '11 see me blacking these walking- 
 shoes, some day," said Virginia, smiling, and showing 
 her dusty shoes. "But what are we thinking about ? 
 See, the sun has set ! I am afraid poor Nora has had 
 to keep the table waiting for uSi Let's hasten home." 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " flive me but 
 Something wliereunto I maj bind my heart; 
 Something to lore, to rest upon, to clasp 
 Affection's tendrils round ! " 
 
 Mrs. LATOtrn was gone to her home, and Isabel, 
 the lonely-hearted, ■was now an inmate of the con- 
 vent. There was here no such amusement as she 
 had at the house of the Sisters of the Heart of Mercy, 
 for here she saw no company. The pupils were under 
 the care of nuns ever watchful over their words, looks, 
 and actions. One nun slept in each room, if indeed 
 the nuns ever slept, which the pupils thought very 
 doubtful, for every whisper and every breath was 
 heard. 
 
 How the joys of the young are enhanced, and their 
 griefs lessened, by confiding them to others ! But 
 this was at first denied the new scholars, until their 
 characters had been learned, so that no true Catholic 
 maiden, or one in a transition state, should be endan- 
 gered in her faith by intercourse with an unbeliever. 
 Great gentleness and tenderness towards Isabel were 
 the result of the insight into her character which the 
 Sisters of Charity had gained ; so that, although 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 87 
 
 alone and cut off from free communion -with her friends, 
 she found herself the object of great interest among 
 the teachers and pupils. 
 
 The nuns ■were nearly all interesting in their ap- 
 pearance, and two of them were truly lovely. The 
 older ones superintended the domestic part of the 
 establishment, and the younger ones the education of 
 the scholars. Here the quiet was in unison with Isa- 
 bel's feelings, and the studies with her taste. At 
 home, her mother had insisted that the hated mathe- 
 matics, and the other solid branches, should be fore- 
 most ; but here, French and Spanish, the piano and 
 the pencil, light English literature, and the embroidery- 
 frame, divided the time. The grounds attached to 
 the convent were beautifully laid out, and many were 
 the delightful walks Isabel enjoyed with Sister Leo- 
 nore, a young lady whom family afflictions had induced 
 to seek shelter in what she called " This Holy House." 
 She was now made secure. — she had taken the white 
 veil ; and, having no home to sigh for, and no property 
 to lose, she had little inducement to return to the 
 world. So she was charged with the care of Isabel. 
 Soon the fear of her as a nun wore away, and Leo- 
 nore and Isabel became loving friends. 
 
 "I wish, my dear child, to grant you every privi- 
 lege ia my power," said Leonore: "but Imust be 
 faithful to my trust, and I do not think it would be 
 the will of the Holy Mother that you should read a 
 Protestant version of the Scriptures, although she 
 does not positively forbid it." 
 
88 THE CONVENT AND THE MAN6E. 
 
 " But, Sister Leonore," said Isabel, " it would be 
 oppression to take away my Bible, even though you 
 should substitute a Catholic one." 
 
 " It is surely right that you should obey the 
 rules of the establishment, dear Isabel," said the 
 lovely nun, " and also consult the wishes of the dear 
 Mother." 
 
 " Would it be right that a Catholic should do so, at 
 a Protestant school? " inquired Isabel 
 
 " That's not a supposable case," replied Leonore ; 
 " for so convinced are the Catholics that their faith is 
 the only infallibly true one, and so wa,tchful are they 
 of souls, that they never send their children where 
 they will hear or read what might shake their confi- 
 dence in our holy religion." 
 
 "I know it," said Isabel, "and it is strange that 
 all Protestants are not as careful with their children. 
 My aunt, however, was assured, previous to my coining 
 here, that my religion should not be interfered with." 
 
 "Nor shall it be," replied the nun. "Toumay 
 in your heart believe what you please; but outwardly 
 you must observe the rules of the convent." 
 
 " Do you think it would be honest for me to repeat 
 prayers to Mary, as the ' Mother of God,' or to Mat- 
 thew, Mark, Luke, John, or any other saint, asking 
 them to plead with God for me, when in my heart I 
 believe this is all forbidden in the Scriptures, and 
 that ' there is but one Mediator between God and man, 
 the man Christ Jesus' ? I always pass over in silence 
 the prayers which I do not believe to be scriptural. I 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 89 
 
 regard my mother's religion sacred, and shall never 
 forsake it." 
 
 "Say not that, darling Isabel! Surely, if you 
 should see that even a mother was in error, dangerous 
 error, you would not wish, by following her, to lose 
 your soul. You know not the consolation that we 
 find, in time of need, through the blessed Mary's inter- 
 cession." 
 
 " I know what my mother enjoyed through Christ's 
 intercession," said Isabel. " The Bible says that 
 ' He ever liveth to make intercession,' but it says not 
 a word of Mary's mediation." 
 
 "Why do you always quote your mother, my love, 
 in speaking of sacred things 1 Do you not also have 
 some hopes of your own 1 In what do you trust? " 
 
 " In nothing," answered Isabel. " I have no hope ! " 
 
 "No hope! and yet declaring against a creed 
 which holds out hope for the vilest? " — and Leonore 
 crossed herself, and called on Mary to aid her erring 
 child. 
 
 " 'So hope is better than a false one. Sister Leo- 
 nore," said Isabel; "and I fear your hope has no 
 foundation. Why do you hope 1 " 
 
 "Christ has died for us on the blessed cross; I 
 fast oft ; repeat more Ave Marias than any one in 
 the convent, &<3. &c." 
 
 " But Leonore," interrupted Isabel, ' " the Bible 
 says that ' by the deeds of the law shall no flesh 
 living be justified,' and that Christ's is ' the only name 
 whereby we can be saved.' " . 
 
90 ' THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 " Ah, but our church is infallible, and she says 
 that we can add our own merits to Christ's, and lay- 
 up ' a stock of good works on which we may live for 
 eternity.'* I wish that, as far as you can, when in 
 private you would use our beautiful forms of prayer ; 
 and, even if you use your own, I think you would 
 find nearer access to God from the chapel. The 
 other ladies, Catholic and Protestant, go twice a-day 
 to the chapel to perform their worship. Go there 
 alone, and stay till you have some hope. Never say, 
 in a Christian land, that you have no hope. Now, you 
 see, my dear, how little influence your religion has 
 had upon you, if for eighteen years you have believed 
 it without any personal gain from it." 
 
 " That is because I am not a Christian — have not 
 been converted." 
 
 " But why are you not a Christian? " asked Leo- 
 nore. " I will tell you. You have done nothing, are 
 doing nothing, towards securing heaven. You're 
 waiting in the hope that, by and by, through some 
 one's else work, you may obtain it. 0, Isabel ! that 
 is an easy belief for the ease-loving. I love your 
 soul, darling, and shall pray for you," continued the 
 affectionate Leonore; "only promise, dear, to go 
 before day into the chapel." 
 
 Isabel promised. "Surely," she thought, "the 
 place will not defile my prayers, and I shall not look 
 at the image or pictures of Mary, nor use the name 
 
 * Challoner's " Garden of the Soul." 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. ' 91 
 
 of a saint. Sweet, sad, sincere Leonore ! how can I 
 refuse her thrice-broken heart any boon it seeks? " 
 
 When Isabel laid her head upon her pillow that 
 night, and repeated what her mother had taught her 
 to lisp in childhood, " Now I lay me down to sleep," 
 &c., she was no more a Catholic than when she sat on 
 her mother's knee ; but she did love Leonore more 
 dearly than ever, and was disposed to look more leni- 
 ently on any error into which she might have been led. 
 
 Before the break of day, a warm kiss awoke the 
 gentle Isabel; and, opening her eyes, she saw Sister 
 Leonore in her white night-robes beside her bed. 
 " Your promise, love," she whispered ; " I 've been a 
 long hour praying for you, as you slept." 
 
 Isabel arose, and, wrapping a mantle around her, 
 left her room and passed through the long dark pas- 
 sages which led to the chapel. This was the first step 
 involving danger. But what harm, she asked herself, 
 could come of her praying in one place rather than 
 in another. 
 
 It was plain to her eye, as she entered the chapel, 
 that Leonore had been there. The image of Mary 
 was gone from its place; but there, as she stood to gaze 
 a moment before she knelt, was an exquisite picture of 
 our Redeemer crowned with thorns. The pale rays 
 of the waxen candles within and the first beams of 
 coming day without seemed to vie with each other in 
 casting a dreamy, poetic light over the painting. Isa- 
 bel forgot the object of her visit, and knelt down, 
 gazing enraptured upon that heavenly face. She gazed 
 
92 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 upon the thorns that pressed the temples, till she saw 
 the blood ooze from beneath; she looked into the 
 eyes which wept on earth, and still they seemed to 
 weep, — as if to remind her of her sins, and yet of 
 His mercy ; her eye was fixed on those lips which 
 spoke forgiveness to his foes, imtil they seemed to 
 move, and " Father, forgive them," to fall upon her 
 ear. Her mind ran over the familiar story of the 
 shameful crucifixion in its minutest particulars, and she 
 wept. Yes, Isabel wept bitter tears over the Saviour's 
 sufierings. But they were the tears only of awakened 
 sensibility, and not of a heart broken for sin. Then 
 she passed an hour in ejaculatory prayer to Christ, the 
 sufiering Christ, and in floods of sentimental tears. 
 There was a sort of luxury in those tears, and a degree 
 of self-righteous satisfaction mingled with her grief. 
 When she left the cold stone chapel, and crept back 
 chilled to her bed, she felt that she was far nearer heaven 
 for this short pilgrimage, and that she loved more dearly 
 the friend whose delicate affection had prompted her 
 to remove the objectionable image and cross. But 
 she was still resolved never to become a real Catholic. 
 She was, however, too honorable not to admit to Leo- 
 nore how much more nearly she approached the 
 Saviour from the altar than from her own room. She 
 said that she seemed to commune with him face to 
 face, and to feel his presence ; but she was not aware 
 that to the beautiful picture she owed the feeling she 
 enjoyed. Had the image of the Virgin been there. 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 93 
 
 or had there been no picture, she would have experi- 
 enced no such emotions. 
 
 Alas! thus it is that the Mistress of Iniquity 
 ' ' deceives ' ' the nations with her ' ' sorceries. " She has 
 something which appeals to every grade of intellect- 
 ual culture, from the lowest to the highest ; to every 
 sentiment, feeling, and passion of our nature. She 
 has images and relics, rosaries, charms and crosses, 
 for the ignorant and superstitious ; while the refined 
 and sensitive mind is allured by the magic of the 
 pencil, the charms of music, and a venerable antiquity. 
 
 Sister Leonore, sincere in following her fathers in 
 a faith she had never examined, was also sincere 
 in her love for her gentle charge. The course she 
 pursued with her was all marked out by those who 
 better understood the true policy of the church. 
 She in simple faith and blind zeal did their bidding, 
 and rejoiced in the faintest token of the success of 
 her efibrts. 
 
 Thus had Isabel commenced her new life with far 
 less suffering of mind, though more real danger, than 
 she had anticipated. She had found a heart to love 
 her ; and her susceptible nature, had all of happiness 
 she asked, till the waves should bring "good tidings 
 from a far country." 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 I am not mad ! this hair I tear is mine ; 
 Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost; 
 
 I am not mad ! I would 1 were. 
 
 For then 't is like I should forget myself; 
 If I were mad, I should forget my son. 
 
 Shaesfeabe. 
 
 How smootUy and joyfully flowed tlie time with 
 tke happy hearts at Brookside ! Three days of each 
 week were devoted to those more solid branches which 
 the young dread, but which older and wiser heads 
 know the value of. These firm foundations were in- 
 sisted on by Mr. and Mrs. Vail, but every endeavor 
 was put forth to make the work as interesting 
 as possible. Monday was devoted to the review 
 of the lessons of the previous week, as on that 
 day Mr. Vail was at liberty and could join them. 
 Experiments, also, in the sciences, which had been 
 passed over at the. daily recitations, were then made. 
 Chemistry, Electricity, and other branches of Natu- 
 ral Philosophy, were thus made a source of great 
 amusement. Questions were asked and answered, 
 subjects illustrated by anecdotes and incidents, and 
 each member of the family' was expected to contribute 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 95 
 
 something of interest from the general reading and 
 observation of the ■week. Mr. Vail laid himself out 
 to be as agreeable as possible, and, aa the afternoon 
 closed with tea on the hill ■when the ■weather and 
 season permitted, Monday ■was looked forward to as a 
 sort of gala-day. 
 
 It was on one of these happy days, — the last time 
 for the year, when the oaks were dropping their leaves, 
 and the maples putting on their gorgeous autumn 
 drapery, — that the young people were preparing tea on 
 the favorite hill, when Mrs. McCorkle, who had been 
 for months deprived of the society of her hopeful son, 
 was seen advancing to the spot. 
 
 "Good-afternoon, Mrs. McCorkle," said Sam, as 
 he saw her crossing the flower-garden. 
 
 " Och, och ! Master Sam, it 's sorra a good afther- 
 noon I see in these days ! — Is his Riverence within 7 ' ' 
 
 " Yes, my good woman," said Anna. " Father and 
 mother will soon be here; — in the mean time, sit down. 
 I have no chair to ofiFer, but you are welcome to as 
 much ground as you please to sit upon." 
 
 " I '11 luffc my best gown," said Mrs. McCorkle ; 
 and, suiting the action to the word, she took her seat 
 on the grass. 
 
 "It's a £ivor I '11 be asking his riverence your 
 father," she began. This was quite an unnecessary 
 piece of information, as the widow never wanted any- 
 thing but favors of Mr. Vail. 
 
 " Well, there he comes, behind you, Mrs. McCor- 
 kle," said Sam. 
 
96 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 The old lady rose, and, curtseying to Mr. and Mrs. 
 Vail, began weeping, — the usual preface to her pe- 
 titions, — and then said, " Och, your riverence, but 
 I 'm the lonely mother, and ye 's mih. all your childer 
 like angels aboot yees. 0, but you're the happy 
 gentleman and lady that's got the likes of them." 
 
 "We ought truly to feel grateful, Mrs. McCor- 
 kle," replied Mrs. Vail, " that they are all spared to 
 make us so happy." 
 
 " Och, but I 'm the miserable -woman that deserves 
 all that 's befell me, for laving the swatest spot iver 
 God's sun shone upon — thraveling over the sea — 
 and all, for what 1 Why, sure, to meet the bad luck 
 that I 've got in this counthry. Och, but the fool I 
 was to leave my home, full and plenty, and nothing 
 to do, and come here to lose my husband and disgrace 
 Jim, and wash for my own living." 
 
 "That's not what you came for, my poor friend," 
 said the minister. "These afflictions might have 
 come upon you in your own land." 
 
 " There 's one of them never would — that 'a pov- 
 erty," said the old lady, warmly. 
 
 " Why, Mrs. McCorkle," said Sam, " don't you 
 remember that the subscription-paper Pa wrote for 
 you to go round with to get your cow began, 
 'Whereas the bearer, Mrs. Judith McCorkle, fled 
 from poverty and starvation in her own country,' &c." 
 
 " Och, och ! now, Master Sam," interrupted Mrs. 
 McCorkle, " sure it 's not like you to heap throubles 
 on me, that way. Sure, if I had poverty and starva- 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 97 
 
 tion at home, is n't that just the very reason why I 
 should n't have them here ? " 
 
 Mr. Vail smiled at this innocent reasoning, and 
 asked, " What can I do for you now, my friend 1 " 
 
 "Och, my heart is full of poor Jim — full and 
 running over!" 
 
 "Well, Mrs. McCorkle!" 
 
 " And I thought," continued the widow, " that 
 mayhe, as your riverence give one paper about the bit 
 of house I live in, and another about the cow, you 'd 
 give me one about gitting Jim out — a petition, like, 
 to them as has the power." 
 
 "What could I say ? " asked Mr. Vail. 
 
 Mrs. McCorkle' s conscience was not very tender, 
 nor her words few, and she began dictating a petition 
 for Mr. Vail to write : "Whereas James McCorkle, a 
 dacent lad and good son to his mother — " 
 
 " But would that be true, my friend ? " asked Mr. 
 Vail. 
 
 "And if it wasn't, sure, how would they know 
 that? " answered the widow. 
 
 "But we must speak the truth at all times," said 
 Mr. Vail. " God knows, if our fellow-men do not." 
 
 Mrs. McCorkle saw that she had gone too fast ; and, 
 changing her tone, began to cry, for effect ; saying, as 
 she wrung her hands, "God keep the childer of the 
 poor! If all I have got in the world would raise 
 twenty dollars, sure I'd soon have him out; but whin 
 a poor innocent lad goes a bit astray, and his mother 's 
 7 
 
98 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 a ■ffidow, he must stay in jail till tlie hard hearts 
 that took him is revinged on him." 
 
 Mr. Vail saw it was in vain to reason with his 
 visitor, and again asked what he could do for her. 
 
 "Couldn't you tell how long you've known 
 Jimmy, and that he cut all your last winter's wood 7" 
 
 " I will tell you what I will do," said Mr. Vail ; 
 " I 'II give you a line to your priest, and as Jim is 
 one of his flock,»he will see to him." 
 
 " 0, hut how could I, a poor body like me, have 
 the face to throuble the holy Father with my little 
 consarns ? ' Dade, ' ' said the widow, " I ' d be ashamed 
 to do the likes o' that." 
 
 " But his time is no more to him than mine is to 
 me," said Mr. Vail. " My time belongs to my flock ; 
 and if your minister should send me a hne saying 
 that one of my church-members was in the House of 
 Correction, I should soon see to it, if I had to walk 
 to Boston to do so." 
 
 The young people could not help laughing at the 
 idea of a church-member in jail for steahng a cow 
 and resisting an officer ; but the inconsistency was not 
 apparent to the darkly-veiled mind of Mrs. McCorkle. 
 "Master Sam," she said, "would carry the paper 
 round to be signed." 
 
 " I beg to be excused," Said Sam, " for I was not 
 very civilly treated the last time. Several have said 
 they 'd sign a petition to keep Jim in, for now they 
 felt at ease about their poultry ; but I don't_ believe 
 Jim stole all the poultry that was missed last winter ; 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 99 
 
 I 'm sorry for you, but I would n't try to release him; 
 — let the law take its course." 
 
 " If anybody '11 give me a paper, I '11 crawl round 
 on my bare knees to every door in the town, will I." 
 
 " You could v}alk a great deal faster," said Sam; 
 " but, as a real friend, I advise you not to try. It 
 will teach Jim a good lesson. He may come home a 
 better boy, although I think he is not so bad as some 
 I know of." 
 
 Mrs. McCorkle, finding she could do no better, 
 concluded to take a note to Father Phelim O'Keefe 
 in a neighboring town, — a piece of audacity few of 
 her behef are ever guilty of. But Mrs. McCorkle 
 was none of your fearful souls, to be easily abashed in 
 the presence of the great. So, after a good cup of 
 tea and a bountiful repast, of which she had partaken 
 by invitation with the rest, she departed so cheerful 
 and happy that it would have been hard to believe she 
 had ever left a full and plentiful home, or had lost 
 her husband, or was deprived of Jim. 
 
 " "Well," said Anna, " this is too bad. Pa ; the best 
 of the afternoon is gone, and the dews are beginning 
 to fall. We all had some pleasant thing to say, but 
 this foolish old creature has really robbed us." 
 
 " Poor old creature ! " said Jane ; " you know she 
 has nowhere else to go when she is in trouble. She 
 has quarrelled, for Jim's sake or her own, with every- 
 body in town but our &mily, — she has no friends, — 
 we n;ust bear with her." 
 
 " That is it, my daughter," said Mr. Vail, looking 
 
100 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 tenderly at Jane; "'enduring all things' requires 
 more grace, sometimes, than doing all things ; it is 
 often harder to bear than to do." 
 
 "I thought, at first, it was you speaking, Ma ; " said 
 Sam; "it sounded just like mother. I think the next 
 generation are to be favored Tvith a second edition of 
 all that 's good and lovely in Ma, through you, Jane." 
 
 " ' Blessed are the peace-makers,' " said Mr. Vail. 
 as if thinking aloud. 
 
 " But still, for all your charity towards her, she 's 
 a tiresome old creature," said Anna, as she began 
 gathering up the tea-things, " and when I keep house 
 she shan't come to see me ; she shan't even do my 
 washing." 
 
 " Well, she may come to see me," said Jane, with 
 a pleasant smile. 
 
 " I don't believe she will, very often," said Sam. 
 " Dick is not overstocked with patience and charity 
 more than myself, and he would soon order her oflf. 
 You won't be able to have so many of your old goodies 
 in your own house as you do now. When Ma^ had 
 the widows' party, Dick said it gave him the horrors 
 to see so many hobbling, worn-out, poverty-stricken 
 folks together, — a sad picture of what we are to 
 become." 
 
 " 0, brother dear ! " said Jane, with an imploring 
 
 look. Mrs. Vail saw that her daughter was pained, 
 
 .and, going to her, spoke softly. "They had better 
 
 know it now, mamma," said Jane; " 'twill save me 
 
 a thousand pangs." 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 101 
 
 " Now let US go in," said Mr. Vail ; "it is damp, 
 and we can as well finish our conversation in the 
 parlor." 
 
 When the happy family party were seated, Jane 
 being absent, the mother said, "I have something to 
 say to the younger ones, particularly to you, dear 
 Virginia, and to Sam. The remark you made, my son, 
 about Richard, has deeply pained your sister. You 're 
 not to blame, as you did not intentionally wound her 
 feelings. Your cousin Jane, dear Virginia, was at 
 far too early an age engaged to this young man. He 
 is fine company, very interesting in manners and 
 appearance, and at heart honorable and upright. But 
 he has not been educated to. care for holy things and 
 seems rather inclined to ridicule them. This con- 
 nection was not at all pleasing to either Mr. Vail or 
 myself, at the time of his leaving his native land. 
 Jane was too much like himself, and, she being warmly 
 attached to him, we gave a sad consent, not, however, 
 without many bitter fears for the happiness of our 
 darling child. She is all that is lovely, and very 
 sensitive, and I well knew that she would be deeply 
 pained to hear holy things reviled. Since the great 
 change has taken place which separates her from all 
 the rest of you, her mind has been much troubled by 
 this union. She wrote frankly to Richard of the change, 
 and of the new life she should lead for the future, 
 with God's help. She was engaged to him, — there- 
 fore she must keep her word ; but she said he was at 
 liberty to break the bond. The letter Sam brought a 
 
102 THE CONVEUT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 short time ago, and the effect of which you must have 
 seen, was an answer to hers." 
 
 " He did not wish to give Jane up because she 
 was better than she used to be ? " asked Sam. 
 
 " He said nothing of that," replied the mother, 
 ' ' but his letter was written in a tone of disappoint- 
 ment and vexation, no doubt to prepare her for one 
 soon to follow which will sever them. This trial, 
 however, gives her an opportunity to suffer for Christ's 
 sake early in her Christian course, and thus to mature 
 her religious character ; and we are much gratified to 
 see her bearing the ' peaceable fruits ' of affliction, — 
 no murmuring, no giving up to melancholy. You all 
 know that, aside from her affection for Kichard, she is 
 yielding a great deal of what the world calls happi- 
 ness; for the" doctor |^ wealthy, and Richard is his only 
 child. But she told me that one hour's peace of mind, 
 such as she has had since drinking the bitter cup, had 
 been more than a recompense for all her suffering. 
 Henceforth never speak his name, Sam. In a few ' 
 months he will be at home, and then will be the time 
 to test her resolution. My own opinion is, that sever- 
 ing these ties will be more agreeable to Richard than 
 union with a Christian. The world with its allure- 
 ments is his delight, and dear Jane's face is now set 
 another way. Two cannot well walk together except 
 they be agreed." 
 
 Sam's noble heart was grieved when he heard how 
 his jesting had wounded the feelings of his darling 
 sister. "Mother, why did you not tell us before? 
 
THE CONVEX! AND THE MANSE. 103 
 
 Then you might have spared her this. No one in this 
 world is good enough for Jane. We -vrill keep her 
 always at home and let Anna go," he added, 
 smiling. ' 
 
 "No sir, Ma can't spare her housekeeper yet," 
 said Anna. " What a blessing that there is still room 
 enough at home for us all ! He '11 be a rare man who 
 can present inducements enough to tempt Tne away 
 from such a home. I love you all more and more, 
 and," she continued, smiling, "I think, with all the 
 minister's trials and toils and all his wife's bothers, 
 they are about the happiest people in Brookside." 
 
 " So I think, sister," said Sam ; "but it has seemed 
 to me, in looking at Pa and Ma, and Jane and Charlie, 
 as if you and I were interlopers here, and that if 
 society should be all shaken up and things get righted, 
 we might come down somewhere else." 
 
 Mr. Vail smiled, and asked, " Where would you 
 probably find yourself, Sam?" 
 
 "I've hardly thought, sir," answered the boy; 
 "but we should find Anna on a throne, — she was 
 meant for a queen." 
 
 "A republican youth talking so!" cried Anna; 
 " don't crave royal honors for me. I 'm very am- 
 bitious ; but my highest hopes are gratified when I 
 can have you all around me and relieve dear father 
 and mother. But I must find my little Jane," said 
 the beautiful girl, rising to leave the room, while she 
 added, " When society gets right side up, what will 
 Jennie be, Sam?" 
 
104 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSB. 
 
 "A saint, of course," said the boy. 
 
 "And Virginia?" 
 
 "An angel without wings; — but why did you 
 force such a compliment from me?" he asked, 
 blushing. 
 
 " A queen — a saint — an angel ! " exclaimed Anna, 
 holding the door in her hand. " Pa, where would the 
 reformers place my bold brother?" 
 
 "He might," said Mr. VaJl, smiling, "be a literary, 
 high-minded horse-jockey, or a sailor, perhaps, for 
 he is fpnd of books, of horses, and adventure. I 
 trust he would not be a prodigal son. — But we've 
 heard no more of the sea, lately. How is this, my 
 son?" 
 
 " Changed my mind, sir, — could n't think of leav- 
 ing my mother." 
 
 " Sam," asked his father, "what will Mamma and 
 I be, after the upturning of society which the lecturer 
 described the other evening? " 
 
 " Just what you now are, sir, — a pastor, and his 
 wife a ministering angel."- 
 
 " Well, mother," asked Mr. Vail, "if we are not 
 all made vain after this conversation, I shall be glad." 
 
 Anna soon returned with Jane, each bearing a bas- 
 ket of fruit, the latter wearing her usual placid face. 
 Virginia looked with admiration on her beautiful 
 cousin, resolving to take her as a model in forming 
 her own character for life. " Just such a character," 
 she thought, " as would please my mother." 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Death lies on her, like an untimely frost 
 Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. 
 
 Shaespeahb. 
 
 Months had passed away viith. Isabel since she 
 entered the convent. The autumn frosts had given 
 brilHant hues to the numerous maple-trees around the 
 place, far more gaudy than they wore in the days of 
 their freshness when warm winds fanned and cool 
 showers watered them. But their very beauty was 
 prophetic of decay and death. Fit emblems were 
 these departing glories of her, who, in her youth and 
 beauty and goodness, was within a sombre room of 
 the convent, fading from earth. Sweet Leonore, the 
 true-hearted friend, the faithful teacher, was near her 
 journey's end, and, like one weary of a wretched and 
 toilsome day, she sighed for rest. Having none else 
 there to love, Isabel had poured out her affection upon 
 the young nun, and the thought of losing her was 
 deeply painful. 
 
 "How shall I live wheh you are gone. Sister 
 Leonore?" she asked, one night, while she aided the 
 jpoor girl through a long passage leading from the 
 
106 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 altar, where in her weakness she had spent a midnight 
 hour. 
 
 "How shall I live without you? Every one here 
 but you is cold and selfish ; the scholars are giddy and 
 trifling. You, dear Leonore, should never have come 
 here at all. You were too frail for this cruel life. 
 If I had hut come a few months sooner, you should 
 have gone home with me to father and Virginia. 0, 
 how happy we should have been ! But it seems as if 
 all I ever love are torn from me." 
 
 " 0, talk not thus, my dear Isabel ! " said Leonore. 
 " You know not yet the meaning of sorrow. When, 
 like you, I lost a gentle mother, my heart was full 
 to bursting. Still, I was the idol of a fond father. 
 When, however, he lost his wealth by villany, a blight- 
 ing worse than death fell upon him, and till this day 
 he remains in a lunatic asylum. Then how I longed 
 for death ! — but still I lived on. I went out a young 
 wanderer, a worse than orphan, to seek my bread by 
 teaching music, and a bright star guided me to a 
 happy home. I was taken into the very heart of the 
 family as their own ; but, alas ! I had then to learn what 
 sorrow was." 
 
 " What could have induced you to seek an abode in 
 this doleful house 7 " asked Isabel. "I have often 
 wished to know, but dared not be so rude as to ask 
 you." 
 
 " The breath of slander drove me here ; or, rather, 
 the saints suffered me to be accused of evil of which 
 I was innocent, that I might be driven into this heavenly 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 107 
 
 rest. The blessed Virgin, viho has a fellow feeling 
 for all falsely-accused women, watched over me and 
 guided me hither." 
 
 " How did you first think of becoming a nun 1" 
 
 " I went with a broken heart to a confessor, and un- 
 burdened before him, not only my neglect of duty, 
 but my sorrows. He sent me here, as the Mother 
 was at that time striving to obtain a teacher of music 
 and of modern languages. I came, and she, like a real 
 mother, opened these doors to me. When the world 
 cast me out, she took me in. 
 
 " I confess to you, what I would confess to no other, 
 that my life has been sad and lonely, here after having 
 lived in the midst of gay society. But I have never 
 had one temptation to leave this place. Here I have 
 given myself away as the ' bride of heaven,' and great 
 rapture have I enjoyed in laying up everlasting 
 treasure." 
 
 "How have you done this, dear Leonora?" asked 
 Isabel. 
 
 "Whenever penance has been laid upon me I have 
 doubled the amount, of my own accord ; I have spent 
 whole nights in prayer, prostrate on my face before 
 the altar ; I have tried to keep the ten commandments ; 
 to love God and my fellow-creatures, and to live a. 
 holy life, without thoughts of the world and without 
 sin." 
 
 "My dear Leonore," Isabel replipd, " I see no be- 
 nevolence in your reception here, for a teacher like 
 you could command a fine salary ; the Sisters, by se- 
 
108 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 # 
 
 curing you aa one of their number, have your whole 
 services, and you receive in return only a coarse stuff 
 gown, a hard pallet, and coarse food." 
 
 " And heaven ! " said Leonore. 
 
 " No, no, not for your faithful life of prayers and 
 • penance. If these alone could save the sinner, why 
 did Christ die at all 1 I do not profess to be a Chris- 
 tian, but I know that the Bible says, ' By grace are 
 ye saved, through faith ; and that not of yourselves : 
 it is the gift of God.' And this I have often heard 
 my mother say." 
 
 "If we strive to do all we can, sweet Isabel, to 
 merit salvation, Christ will help us with his powerful 
 arm, especially if we have the intercessions of his 
 blessed Mother." 
 
 " Could he not have imparted that strength from 
 heaven, and never have come to earth at all to suffer ? 
 How would it be with a dying soul, which, although 
 repentant, had no time for penance and good works 1 " 
 ' ,," It could then have masses said which, would 
 deliver it from purgatory. This is a resort which your 
 belief denies you," said Leonore. 
 
 " But if he had no friends and no money? " 
 
 " Alas, then, unless the saints have pity on him! " 
 said Leonore, crossing herself. 
 
 " Do you think, dear Sister Leonore," asked Isabel, 
 " that there will be any deficiency to be made up by 
 masses when you are gone ? " 
 
 " Yes, ten thousand ! I have not loved God with 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 109 
 
 my -whole heart, — I have not lived a perfectly holy 
 life." 
 
 " Well, I fear there -will not he as many masses 
 said for you as for the young Portuguese nun who died 
 among them. Her father's- coffers were thrown open 
 to pay tribute to his superstition. Why were more 
 prayers said for her soul than for the soul of that cross 
 old Sister Bridget 1 She needed less, surely." 
 
 Leonore did not answer, but looked sad. Isabel 
 then repeated to her the story of Mary Flynn and the 
 Sisters of the Heart of Mercy, adding, " Although I 
 went into the church, I never heard mass said but 
 once for poor John, and his sister paid a great deal 
 for it. I am much afraid there were so many new and 
 richer souls to be prayed for, that he was forgotten. 
 
 " I love you, and admire many things connected with 
 your worship ; but I fear that with most of the priests 
 and nuns money is the moving power, and I dread to 
 have you die trusting in the name of your churclfe'^ ..^ 
 
 "I entreat you not to shake my foundation now,'^ 
 said Leonore, " as you have no firmer one to offer. 
 If you had real faith in your own religion, you would 
 grasp at its offers of free salvation for yourself. God 
 help me to fix my hope on his dear Son, and pardon 
 all my errors of weakness or ignorance ! But hence- 
 forth we must talk no more on disputed points." 
 
 Isabel was ashamed that, after having confessed to 
 Leonore that she had no hope of -heaven for herself, 
 she should have recommended another religion to her 
 friend. She felt the inconsi|tency, and saw that she 
 
110 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 had need to seek- earnestly her own salvation. She 
 saw, too, Leonore's beautiful character, apparently the 
 fruit of her religion ; her sweet submission to God's will 
 in all her trials, and her willingness either to toil Unre- 
 warded on earth or ascend to a home where bolts and 
 bars are not needed to shut out the world and its sin. 
 Then she looked at her own proud heart, and saw how 
 unwilling she was that God should dispose of her and 
 of those she loved as He pleased, — how almost angry 
 she felt at the prospect of losing Leonore, — and her 
 faith was shaken. She was bewildered. 
 
 For some days and nights she prayed long at the 
 altar; for thus her taste was gratified, her dying friend 
 was made happier, and, almost unconsciously to her- 
 self, a deeper feeling was at work within to draw 
 her thither. "0 that I' knew the way to heaven," 
 she would sometimes say, " and had grace to walk 
 therein ! " 
 
 "A tree is known by its fruit." Judge'd by this 
 standard, the faith of Sister Leonore shone brightly; 
 but Isabel knew not that beneath, or mingled with, the 
 rubbish of a corrupt system lay the seed of truth, " the 
 incorruptible seed which liveth and ahideth forever," 
 and that this seed had been lodged in Leonore's heart. 
 Neither was Leonore herself as yet fully aware that 
 in the deep experience of her soul she was resting 
 upon Christ and his finished work, so much had a 
 popish education and prejudices dimmed her spiritual 
 vision, and caused an undue estimate of outward ob- 
 servances. In her case it seemed to require the clearer 
 
THE cOjJVEilT AND THE MANSE. Ill 
 
 light of an opening eternity to reveal the hiddei 
 spring of her peace and hope. As she began to fie 
 the shado-ws of death come over her, she found herseli 
 letting go all other supports but death's Conqueror 
 She felt then her perfect weakness and insufficiency 
 and thought alone of Him who had hung on Calvar 
 and become the "first-fruits of them that slept.' 
 Then new light from heaven seemed to beam upoi 
 her departing spirit. " 0, Jesus ! " she exclaimed 
 " Son of God, Son of Mary, receive my spirit ! " 
 - Thus she breathed her last, trusting alone in tb 
 Redeemer's merits, in the faith of whom she ha( 
 walked for years, though in connection with more o: 
 less of speculative error. It was His secret strengtl 
 that had carried her through so many trials. 
 
 Ah ! God only knows how many of his hidden one 
 are thus feeling their way dimly to heaven throng) 
 the gloom of an apostate church, — in that church, bu 
 not of it ; for that church has truth enough to sav( 
 the soul, if only separated from the chaffi Alas ! th( 
 imminent danger that the dense errors of her faitl 
 will utterly blind the minds of her votaries, and leac 
 them down to death ! Here and there the Spirit of 
 God may beget such a sense of personal sinfulness anc 
 helplessness, and such a sympathy with saving truth, 
 in souls still in external communion with Rome, 
 as may cause them to lay hold on Christ. Such 
 were Thomas k Kempis, Fenelon, Pascal, Martir 
 OS, Van Ess, and Madame Guion. Their hands, 
 ferinely guided, reached through the thick growth of 
 
112 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 imtruths around them and grasped the almost hid- 
 den "tree of life." So was it, we doubt not, with 
 Leonore. She sought after that " holiness without 
 which no man shall see the Lord." And, although 
 she was the child of ignorant devotion from the cradle, 
 it may be better for her, in the last day, than for 
 many who were instructed in the Bible from child- 
 hood, and taught to kneel beside the family altar, but 
 to whom all was in vain through unbelief. Their 
 proud hearts would not yield to God, and theirs must 
 be the condemnation of such as knew their Master's 
 will and did it not. 
 
 Reared as Leonore was in the doctrines of Rome, 
 she thought no more of examining the Protestant sys- 
 tem with a view to embracing it if found true, than 
 would the children of Christian parents think, for 
 such a purpose, of investigating Mohammedanism. 
 The only Protestants she ever knew were those who 
 had wronged her. They betrayed the holy cause they 
 professed to love ; and, instead of striving to win the 
 gentle girl to a purer faith, they ridiculed that in 
 which she trusted, and branded indiscriminately its 
 priests as knaves and its votaries as fools. Thus was 
 a golden time, given to win a soul to Christ, spent in 
 inflicting pangs which almost broke her spirit. What 
 must be their account in the day of judgment ? 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 No wild enthusiast ever yet could rest, 
 
 Till half mankind were like himself possessed. 
 
 COWPEB. 
 
 0, HOW lonely and desolate to Isabel were those 
 days which followed the burial of Leonore ! How her 
 bursting heart loathed her books, her nausic and her 
 pencil ! How insufferable became the presence of the 
 bigoted Sister Mary, and how dull her 'teachings, 
 when compared with those of her lovely predecessor ! 
 -Even her attempts at affectionate ways to gain Leo- 
 nore's place in the hearts of .her pupils made her 
 more disagreeable. Besides, Isabel could see that she 
 was quite incompetent to fill the vacant place. Her 
 playing, which she rarely ventured to display, was 
 old-fashioned and out of taste ; her French was by no 
 means adapted to a Parisian ear ; and her painting ! 
 — but, fortunately for the young ladies and fWr her- 
 self, she discovered, after two attempts at giving les- 
 sons, that the smell of oil-paints made her ill. 
 
 Isabel felt great respect for the Lady Superior, whose 
 bland and dignified manners bespoke her of the highest 
 social rank in her native land. She had come to this 
 country a few years before, accompanied by six young 
 
114 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 nuns, to establish a convent in our great western 
 valley; but, while in Washington, where they had 
 letters of importance to deliver, and business to 
 transact with some .dignitaries of the church, she was 
 importuned to forego her purpose. This convent 
 where Isabel was now residing was then destitute of a 
 Superior, death having recently removed from the 
 oifice an accomplished woman, whose place it was not 
 easy to fill. The importance of this particular field 
 of labor was set before her in glowing colors, and of 
 this time, as promising to gather in a golden harvest 
 of youthful souls to the holy mother church. There 
 were Gen. A. and Major B., who, for political mo- 
 tives, thought of placing their daughters in the con- 
 vent for education, but who would on no account do 
 so unless the best advantages could be offered. Large 
 promises of endowments and other strong ^induce- 
 ments were held out. The lady conferred with the 
 six Sisters, who were as her children. They were 
 distressed at the thought of a separation in this strange 
 land, but yielded their consent on condition of her 
 retaining Sister Bridget, who' had been as a watch- 
 dog to them by sea and land. So, when all was set- 
 tled, the five nuns, in company with a father-confessor, 
 bent their steps westward. 
 
 It was soon evident that the shrewd clergy had not 
 erred in their estimate of the lady's character. Her 
 elegant appearance and polished manners gained the 
 admiration of all. It was, moreover, becoming quite 
 genteel to send girls to a convent for education ; and 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 115 
 
 within a few weeks nine Protestant young ladies had 
 been admitted as scholars. 
 
 It was the province of Sister Bridget to watch and 
 bark ; — and woe to the offender ! She was reported to 
 the Superior in no soft terms ; but never was the 
 punishment as severe as the ruthless Sister would 
 have inflicted, had she been executioner as well as 
 
 spy- _ 
 
 Owing to the close intimacy which had subsisted 
 between Isabel and Sister Leonore, no one had seemed 
 to feel . much responsibility about her ; but now that 
 Sister was gone, and another must take her place. 
 Who should it be ? This question occupied not a 
 little the Lady Superior's thoughts. It was important 
 to keep the influence which had been gained over the 
 mind of Isabel. But the high-minded girl was too 
 unhappji, in her loneliness and too independent in her 
 feelings to long await their decision in silence. She 
 requested an interview with the Superior, which was 
 granted ; and one evening, not many weeks after the 
 death of Leonore, she was seated in the private parlor 
 of that lady. 
 
 " Surely, my love," said the Superior, " you do 
 not feel that you have a right to complain ! Death 
 has tak^ Leonore away. That could not have been 
 prevented by any foresight of ours. She is a greater 
 loss to us than to you; but -we must submit to the 
 will of Heaven." 
 
 " That is all true," replied Isabel ; " but of course, 
 madam, it is my duty to improve my time in my 
 
116 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 father's absence. My object in visiting your room 
 was to inquire who was to fill the place of our dear 
 Sister Leonore. While we have no competent teach- 
 ers, of course our time is lost." 
 
 "Poes not Sister Mary attend to your French, 
 music and painting 1 " asted the Superior. 
 
 " Sister Mary ! Dear madam," exclaimed Isabel, 
 " are you not aware that she cannot teach us ? She 
 can play a few old-fashioned marches and overtures, 
 and read a little French ; but she cannot paint at all. 
 I have a sister, fifteen years old, who could teach 
 Sister Mary for years to come ! " 
 
 " Is it possible 1 " asked the Superior, whose forte 
 lay in elegance rather than in accurate and sound 
 learning. " I had hoped to rely upon her till the 
 close of this year." 
 
 " And after that, madam ? " asked Isabel. <)> 
 
 The nun arose, and, approaching Isabel, said, in 
 gentle tones, " Did not your beloved Leonore enjoin 
 on yoii to fill her place when she was no more ? — to 
 consecrate yourself as a bride of Heaven ?" 
 
 " No, never ! " answered Isabel. " She knew my 
 views too well to do so. Leonore was no bigot her- 
 self, and she did not wish to make a hypocrite of 
 me!" 
 
 " No bigot, my dear, but a true Christian ; and it 
 was alone for want of strength that she did not address 
 you on the subject. It was her dying request that you 
 might fill her place. A dying request, my daughter, 
 is more binding than the most solemn vow. Leonore 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 117 
 
 sees you from heaven, — is perhaps now your guardian 
 angel, listening to your decision. Beware, lest you 
 grieve her by betraying her confident hopes ! Beware, 
 my daughter ! " 
 
 " But, my dear madam, my object in troubling you 
 at this time was to ask your leave to visit my friends, 
 until you have a competent teacher." 
 
 The Lady Superior looked confused. " Where do 
 your friends reside, my love 7 " she asked. 
 
 " In Massachusetts," replied Isabel. " My sister 
 is there, with our mother's sister." 
 
 " Why did she not come here to be with you 1 " 
 
 " Her friends thought her too young," said Isabel ; 
 " but, if life is spared us another year, we must be 
 together. Have I your consent for my journey, 
 madam?" 
 
 The nun was taken by surprise. She asked many 
 questions about her friends in New England, and then 
 said, with some embarrassment, "Do you intend to 
 return, if you go away, my daughter?" 
 
 Isabel's cheeks flushed like crimson. Her honor 
 was doubted. " Madam," she said, " I believe I am 
 under no bonds to remain here. If I wished to leave, 
 I need not use deception : I could tell you so at once. 
 My aunt made an engagement for me, through Mrs. 
 Latour, for one year, on condition that I should be 
 well treated. I have been so treated by all, and in- 
 tend to remain till the year closes. It was not my 
 intention to take my trunks. If, however, you have 
 any fears about me, I will advance my winter's bill, 
 
118 ,THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 to insure my return: If you shall secure a teacher 
 in Leonore's place, I shall come back ; if not, you are 
 welcome to the money." 
 
 " The money, my love, would be a poor compensa- 
 tion for the loss of your society. Leonore was not 
 the only one here who loved you ; but our sweet sis- 
 ter so monopolized you that the others had but little 
 opportunity to manifest their affection. A deep in- 
 terest is felt in you, and just at this time your absence 
 would be a double loss. You have heard your aunt 
 and Mrs. Latour speak of Gen. Gray's daughters 7 " 
 
 " I have," replied Isabel. " My aunt was induced 
 to send me here by the interest she felt in them." 
 
 " Well, love, a third daughter, nearly your own 
 age, is expected here soon, to finish her education. I 
 am sorry to say that some vile persons, probably those 
 who have received money for instructing her, have 
 disaffected her mind so much that she is very sad at 
 the prospect of coming to us. I have looked to you 
 for aid in her case. Being, like yourself, a Protest- 
 ant, she will place confidence in you, and you could 
 render her happy in your society." 
 
 "But why do they send her here against her 
 wishes?" asked Isabel. 
 
 " Because they are aware, my daughter," the holy 
 mother replied, " that no such advantages for an ele- 
 gant education are offered as in a Catholic convent ; 
 and, as in duty bound, her parents insist upon her 
 coming here. She is a young lady of great beauty 
 and loveliness of character, but naturally so gay and 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 119 
 
 fond of company, that she dreads the restraint of 
 this ho]y house. Money is no object whatever with 
 her father ; but he is anxious to render his youngest 
 child happy, for she is a great pet at home." 
 
 "I fear they will be sadly disappointed, "-replied 
 Isabel, "when they learn how limited is Sister Mary's 
 ability to teach. How soon, madam, do you expect 
 this young lady ? " 
 
 " In about six weeks. How long time do you wish 
 to spend with your friends 1 " asked the lady, with a 
 troubled and anxious expression. " This," she said, 
 without waiting an answer from Isabel, "this is 
 indeed a sad afiair, to be left thus, with only Sister 
 Mary to depend on at such an important time ! "' 
 
 " She certainly is very incompetent for her duties," 
 said Isabel. 
 
 " Gen. Gray will, of course, wish to converse with 
 her, and will judge of our house by what he sees of 
 our teacher," said the Superior. "He has friends 
 also who think of sending their daughters here." 
 
 Isabel began to press the question of her visit. 
 The Superior seemed very reluctant to consent, and 
 y^ unwilling to cross her wishes. She therefore 
 promised to think of the matter; and, after exhorting 
 her fail" pupil to fidelity in her prayers and other 
 religious duties, she drew from her bosom a little pearl 
 box, of fine workmanship. This she held up, and, 
 drawing Isabel toward her, said, "Here, my daughter, 
 is a legacy from sweet Leonore. May it have talis- 
 manic power to keep you in the path of truth ! Carry 
 
120 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 it at daybreak and sunset to the altar, as slie did for 
 you, and, with your eyes upon it, offer up your peti- 
 tions. She ■will watch you from on high, my love," 
 said the holy mother, with deep solemnity, " to see if 
 you make good use of her cross and rosary ! " 
 
 " A cross and rosary ! " exclaimed Isabel. " But 
 why, when she knew I was a Protestant, did she leave 
 this for me ? " 
 
 " Adieu now, daughter ! " said the Superior, kiss- 
 ing her tenderly, and opening the parlor-door. 
 
 Isabel withdrew, amazed at the gift, and fully 
 resolved to visit her friends, whether she received the 
 Superior's permission or not. 
 
 In the morning the Superior summoned her to 
 her room, and, when she was seated, took her hand 
 tenderly, and said: "My dear, I have thought 
 much of your request, and feel very unwilling to deny 
 you any pleasure. It would be a great disappoint- 
 ment to me to lose your aid just at this time. You 
 have, however, my full permission to go ; but, should 
 you decide to remain, I should take it as an act of 
 real kindness to myself, which I could not easily 
 forget." 
 
 The generous heart of Isabel instantly relinquished 
 all thought of her visit, rejoiced to have an oppor- 
 tunity of doing a deed of love to any one. 
 
 Thus, while the way to win the hearts of most peo- 
 ple is to do them a kindness, there are a noble few 
 whose love may more easily be won by asking a favor 
 of them. To this class belonged Isabel ; and from 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 121 
 
 that hour she loyed more dearly the Lady Superior, 
 and was ever ready to obey her wishes. 
 
 She was thrown upon her own judgment in regard 
 to her course of study ; but, as a hope was held out of 
 soon having a competent teacher, she toiled on as best 
 she could under the nominal instruction of Sister Mary. 
 Being conscientious in the improvement of her time 
 and resolved to gratify her father upon his return, she 
 read many useful books, and. applied herself with 
 double diligence to her jdaily duties. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 And is there who the blessed Cross wipes off 
 As a foul blot from his dishonored brow 1 — 
 If angels tremble, 't is at such a sight. 
 
 TotruG. 
 
 A TEAR had now flown away since Mr. Mclver left 
 his children. Repeated letters gave strong hopes of 
 his restoration to them, if not to perfect health. 
 Gladly were these letters, so full of interesting 
 descriptions of foreign lands, welcomed by all the 
 young people at Brookside. In one, written from the 
 absent father to Mr. Vail, much anxiety was expressed 
 on Isabel's account. He said that her first letters to 
 him were silent with regard to herself, aside from her 
 studies. He did not wonder at this, as he well knew 
 all letters there were read by the Superior before 
 being mailed ; but he had often feared that she was 
 shutting up in her own heart home-sick feelings, 
 which she longed to reveal to him. But of late her 
 letters had assumed a different character, and were 
 full of the praise of the Superior, whom she called a 
 dear mother. He could not understand the sudden 
 change, and his fears were excited for her, aware as 
 he was that the natural melancholy of her disposition 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 123 
 
 would make her an easy victim to the wiles of her 
 teachers. He also feared that his sister might have 
 mentioned to Mrs. Latour the amount of money Isabel 
 would receive in the event of his death abroad. He 
 stated that he had made a new will, annulling the 
 former in case either child should enter a convent. 
 This he wished the Sisters to know. He did not 
 wish to treat them rudely by writing directly to 
 them on the subject; and it was useless to write to 
 Isabel, as she would never receive such a letter 
 from their hands. He was surprised at his blind- 
 ness in allowing her to be sent there at first, and 
 stated that the objections he then had were greatly 
 increased by what he had seen and heard of like insti- 
 tutions abroad. He wished Mrs. Vail to urge a visit 
 from Isabel, and to lay this letter before her should 
 they think there was any ground for his fears. He 
 wrote cheerfully and hopefully, and the warm heart 
 of Virginia was Iftioyed up by the picture of a happy 
 home which the future still held out before them. 
 
 The soft winds of the early summer wafted home 
 the ship in which was the young physician. The 
 raptures of his aged parents at the return of an only 
 child, and the warm greeting of his boyhood's friends, 
 could not long satisfy him. From his earliest school- 
 days he had loved Jane Vail; and, although the bond 
 between them was partially severed, he felt, when he 
 reached home, that the flame still burned brightly, 
 and that it was she who of all others made that home 
 
124 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 SO dear to him. " I must see the family at the par- 
 sonage," he said to his mother; "for I still admire 
 them all above every family in town. Mr. Vail, I 
 suppose, will rejoice if our engagement is finally 
 broken; for he only gave his consent in the first 
 place after urging every objection in vain. Jane has 
 a mind of her own, although she is so gentle." 
 
 A note to Anna was kindly answered, saying that 
 all the family would be glad to see him, and regret- 
 ting that he used so much formality as to ask permis- 
 sion to call. This cordiality at once broke down all 
 fears as to his reception, and assured him that his 
 last letter, written in a spirit of vexation, however 
 much it might have wounded the heart of Jane, 
 had not given offence to the older members of the 
 family. The evening found him one of the home 
 party. Jane was present, and met him as did the 
 others. She was small and frail and child-like ; but 
 within was the strong, true woman's heart, and she 
 shrunk from no sacrifice which her duty demanded. 
 She had, in her answer to Richard Campbell's last 
 letter, oflfered freely to release him from a bond 
 which might become a snare to her, and which 
 she thought was even now a miserable bondage 
 to him. No answer was returned to this ; and, 
 although she was yet his betrothed, she felt that in 
 reality the tie between them was broken. She had 
 given herself to One dearer than any earthly friend, 
 and into His hand she had committed this matter, 
 cheerfully awaiting His decision. 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 125 
 
 After an hour pleasantly spent in conversation with 
 the family, Anna, Sam, and Virginia withdrew, 
 leaving the young physician with Mrs. Vail and Jane. 
 After alluding to the letters which had passed between 
 them, the mother kindly said, " You well remember, 
 Richard, that I told you, years ago, that your taste 
 and Jane's were too unlike to render such a union 
 happy. For the sake of both I opposed it as long as 
 I did. Since then the difference between you has 
 increased rather than diminished, and I think it would 
 be for the happiness of all parties to come to a decision 
 in this matter. Would it not be well to say, after 
 this evening, that your former engagement is dissolved 
 by mutual consent 1 " 
 
 " Mrs. Vail," replied the young man, " I have no 
 wish to break my engagement. I hope you remember 
 that this proposal came from Jane herself, but that I 
 have not as yet acceded to it." 
 
 " She took that step because she saw, by your last 
 letter, that you were made unhappy by the change in 
 her feelings and pursuits," replied the mother. 
 
 " I was made unhappy, but only because I saw that 
 this change in her would sever us; although the 
 reason for this necessity I cannot see," answered 
 Richard. 
 
 " You could not be happy if you and your wife 
 were pursuing different objects of happiness. Two 
 cannot walk together unless they be agreed." 
 
 " And why, my dear madam," asked the young 
 man, " can we not be agreed? I am willing to niake 
 
126 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 any concession, and if Jane will but yield some of her 
 prejudices, the obstacles will all be removed." 
 
 "What do you mean by concessions, Richard?" 
 asked Jane, calmly. 
 
 " Why," said the young man, hesitatingly, " why, 
 for instance, I should never interfere with your 
 religion, you should go into such society as best suited 
 you, I would accompany you to church half a day, 
 and — " 
 
 " And what should you expect me to do?" asked 
 Jane. 
 
 " Whatever pleased yourself," he replied, looking 
 tenderly on her, "and it would all be right in my 
 eyes." 
 
 " Would you expect me to entertain gay parties, 
 attend the theatre occasionally, and go half a day to 
 the other church ? " 
 
 " I'll entertain the parties myself," he answered, 
 " and as to the theatre, my business will prevent me 
 going into town as I used to do. But I should like 
 you and myself to pay enough respect to my dear 
 aged parents to sit half a day in their pew. You 
 know, Jane, I am all the child they have." 
 
 " And many parents receive less attention from a 
 large family than yours do from one. But I would 
 not do wrong to please my own dear mother." 
 
 " What do you think Mr. Hale preaches about? " 
 he asked ; "you never heard him, but have some horrid 
 ideas of his theology. He urges as strict a morality, 
 and as true a love to our neighbor, as does your 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 127 
 
 father. And, if you were away from your present 
 home, others would not be influenced by you to desert 
 your father's church. You would no longer be looked 
 up to as the pastor's daughter." 
 
 " I could never sit in a church where every week my 
 Saviour is crucified afresh, and put to an open shame. 
 I have firmly resolved to do nothing which will wound 
 his cause ; and," she added, struggling with emotion, 
 "I trust he will give me strength to keep my reso- 
 lution." 
 
 The young man looked puzzled, but made no reply. 
 
 " Richard," said Mrs. Vail, " I wish you would 
 tell me, with the candor you were so famous for when 
 a boy, just what you think of Jane's decision, and of 
 her present position." 
 
 "I think, Mrs. Vail," he replied, "that she either 
 never loved me at all, or that she has beconre very 
 fanatical since I left home. Her views, as you wish 
 me to be frank, seem all moonshine to me, from 
 beginning to end." 
 
 "Then, my dear young friend, how could you 
 respect a wife of whose judgment you thought so 
 little 1 " asked the mother. 
 
 " I not only respect but also love you, Mrs. Vail ; 
 and yet your views are the same as hers." 
 
 " But," asked the lady, " if I should tell you to- 
 night that I had cast away as worthless the faith I 
 hold, and that I knew nothing, believed nothing, and 
 feared nothing, would you not respect me more than 
 you now do?" 
 
128 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 "I think I should respect you more; I should 
 admire your independence in daring to throw off the 
 chains with which you are bound." 
 
 " Just so. And would jou not be happier with a 
 lady who had no such strict notions as Jane hasl — one 
 who could visit the theatre, ball-room and opera with 
 you, and who would go to any church, or to none, as 
 should suit your inclination 1 " 
 
 " I could be very happy with Jane if such were 
 her tastes; but, as to any other lady, no one else could 
 make me happy, let her be what she would." 
 
 "Well, Richard,, my advice to you is that you 
 release Jane from her engagement ; but I trust you 
 will always be a friend to us all." 
 
 "Your advice is hard to follow," he replied; " but 
 as to being a friend to you all, — what else could I be ? 
 You have always treated me kindly, from a boy ; and 
 I don't think I ever forgot one kindness in my life." 
 
 "And, Richard," said the lady, "remember that 
 when I bring my own dear children before the Re- 
 deemer I shall not forget you. Think of this, night 
 and morning. Friends we must be, for when your 
 father is not able to go out you will be our phy- 
 sician." 
 
 "You are pledging me to a cold friendship, Mrs. 
 Vail," he said, smihng sadly, " but, remember, I have 
 not yet said that I would relinquish Jane, nor shall I 
 say the woi-d to-night. I wish first to see her alone, 
 and hear her own views more freely." 
 
 " Although I am very anxious to have this painful 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 129 
 
 matter settled, I am willing you should converse as 
 much as you please with Jane. You are too honor- 
 able to wish her to act against her conscience, and I 
 have too much confidence in her religious character 
 to doubt her firmness." 
 
 " I shall not try to shake her faith, for it is quite 
 harmless ; but really I do not think it is of sufficient 
 importance to separate us. One word hastily spoken 
 now may make us both miserable for life. Our views 
 of religion may be difierent, and yet we may be happy 
 together," said the young man. 
 
 " Our views of religion ! What are your views of 
 religion ? " asked Mrs. Vail of her young friend. 
 
 He smiled sadly, and said, "You must not catechize 
 me very closely, Mrs. Vail, for I am but a poor theo- 
 logian." 
 
 " But you can tell what you believe, Richard," 
 said Jane ; " I never knew more than that you dislike 
 the restraint which orthodoxy imposes on its ad- 
 herents." 
 
 As Mrs. Vail silently withdrew from the parlor, he 
 replied, 
 
 " I can hardly tell you what my belief is. I have 
 held many different sentiments. When I was a boy, I 
 remember thinking that your father alone preached 
 the truth, in this place. Bu,t his preaching made me 
 miserable, so did reading the Bible, because I did not 
 live as that required. I was at one time so wretched 
 I could not study at school, and almost went to your 
 &ther one night to converse with him." 
 9 
 
130 TUB CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 " Why did you not do so ? " asked Jane. 
 
 " Because I felt that I had no right to tax his time. 
 I had a claim on the old parson; so I went there and 
 told him just how I felt. He advised me to cast oif 
 all my gloomy feelings, and go out into the world and 
 enjoy all that God had made for our happiness. I 
 told him I was miserable, and until my heart became 
 more pure it was painful to me to feel that God's eye 
 was upon me. He looked at me in amazement, and 
 said he had always thought me a moral boy, but 
 feared now lest I had been led- into some great sin ; 
 and advised me to confess it and ease my conscience, 
 pledging his honor never to betray me. I told him I 
 had no such sin to confess, and then he said he sus- 
 pected I had been influenced by some companion who 
 attended your father's church. He had always noticed 
 that the efiect of the sentiments there preached was to 
 degrade a man in his own esteem, and to destroy all 
 self-respect. This I knew to be true, for since I began 
 to look into the doctrines your father taught I seemed 
 like another being to myself. He then told me to seek 
 relief to my mind in gay amusements, and said that if 
 those thoughts were of myself they would soon flee, but 
 if they came from God, as I thought they did, my 
 weak efibrts could not avail against His strong arm." 
 
 "But God might leave you to your own choice, 
 when you refused to listen to his call," said Jane. 
 
 " Well," replied the young man, " I took the par- 
 son's advice, and my wretchedness soon wore ofi", as 
 he said it would; and although for a long time I still 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 131 
 
 held to the doctrines of Scripture, I never saw myself 
 such a desperado again." 
 
 "Richard," said the young girl, solemnly, "there 
 is a passage in the Scriptures where God says, ' Be- 
 cause I have called and ye refused ; ye have set at 
 naught all my counsel, and would none of my reproof; 
 I also will laugh at your calamity ; I will mock when 
 your fear cometh.' This call you had when a boy, 
 and the threatening — 0, I pray God that may never 
 be fulfilled in your case ! " 
 
 " Then," said the young man, as if he had not been 
 interrupted in the relation of his views, " I used to 
 think all religions were right enough, if the believers 
 in them were only sincere ; that a faithful Catholic, 
 Hindoo, Mohammedan, or follower of Christ, would all 
 reach heaven, — if there be a heaven." 
 
 " What a strange heaven it would be ! " said Jane. 
 " The Bible says that ' as the tree falleth, so it must 
 lie ; ' — therefore, each of those you mention would enter 
 there with the same claim he held on earth : — the Hin- 
 doo, sa,Ted through human sacrifices ; the Mohammedan, 
 by his pilgrimage, with bleeding feet, to Mecca's holy 
 city; the Roman Catholic, through cruel penance, 
 and prayers to the Mother of Christ ; and the follow- 
 ers of the Redeemer, through faith in His blood ! 
 How could the same heaven satisfy them all ? " 
 
 "And yet they all expect to get there," replied 
 Richard, " and, if the hope makes them happy, no 
 matter what they build it on." 
 
 "But one only of all these religions can be the true 
 
132 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 foundation," said Jane; "and how will it be with 
 those who build on the sand, hereafter?" 
 
 "Hereafter! ah, I know little about hereafter," 
 replied he, shaking his head. 
 
 " This was your second belief, Richard," said Jane ; 
 "now tell me, if you please, what you believe now." 
 
 " Dear Jane," he answered, after some hesitancy, 
 as if he was forced to speak what he would rather 
 conceal, " I have believed everything, but I must con- 
 fess that since I left home I have cast off the entire 
 subject. I really believe nothing I do not under- 
 stand." 
 
 " If I could only induce you to examine the claims 
 which the religion of Jesus presents to our belief, I 'm 
 sure you would embrace it," said Jane. 
 
 "If ever a man had a powerful motive for casting 
 away his reason, I have," replied the young man ; 
 " and, if my soul did not abhor hypocrisy, I should at 
 once declare myself a believer, and thereby secure all 
 I care for on earth. But, while I retain my reason, 
 and remain an honest man, I can never believe such 
 doctrines as your father preaches." 
 
 " Don't say so, Richard ; for millions, whose reason 
 is as sound as yours, and their honesty as firm, have 
 embraced with their whole heart the gospel of Christ." 
 
 " What are we doing now, Jane, but arguing on 
 religious topics? — and that is what I promised your 
 mother not to do. Now you know my heart, and I as- 
 sure you that, notwithstanding my heresy, I have kept 
 aloof from all immorality, and am as true to you as you 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 133 
 
 are to your faith. If you are not too bigoted, dear 
 Jane, to take me just as I am, I shall make you the 
 happiest wife in the town. If you decide otherwise, 
 you must say the word that severs us. I shall not 
 take the responsibility." 
 
 " If I, for your happiness, as well as from a sense 
 of duty on my part, break our engagement, shall you 
 look on the act as wrong 1 " 
 
 " Certainly not, Jane, for I have given you full per- 
 mission to act your pleasure in the matter. Indeed, 
 I would not marry any lady if I knew there was the 
 least thing in me she wished otherwise," he added, 
 with a look of sensitive pride. — " I shall abide your 
 decision." And with a kind " good-night " he departed. 
 A week of thoughtful days and anxious nights passed 
 away, and Jane still adhered to her resolution to for- 
 sake all for Christ. She felt that her outward 
 profession of love would be but the kiss of betrayal, 
 should she immediately give her best earthly love to 
 an enemy of His cause. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A politician, ProteuSrlike, must alter 
 His face and liabit, and, like water, seem 
 Of the same color that the vessel is 
 That doth contain it, varying his form 
 With the chameleon, at each object's change. 
 
 Mason. 
 " My heart in chains is bleeding ; 
 I dream of all things free." 
 
 "0, DEAK me ! " cried the beautiful Mary Gray, 
 " it seems as if the fates had all conspired against 
 me ! Cast out from my own dear home and shut up 
 in this doleful old convent, I was tempted to end my 
 days, till you dawned on me, dear Isabel ; and now 
 you too must be taken from me ! Do come back 
 again, if only for my sake." 
 
 " I think I shall return after a few weeks, although 
 I could not promise the Supe]||gr, as she wished me to 
 do. I must -first see my aunt and sister, and read 
 recent letters from my dear father." 
 
 " Don't you think it was really cruel in my father 
 to send me here, when he knew how fond I was of 
 going out, and seeing friends at home? " asked Mary. 
 
 " No doubt he thought it the best thing he could 
 do for you," replied Isabel. "Many think the advan- 
 tages greater for a young lady in a convent than in 
 any. other establishment. ' ' 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 135 
 
 " You don't think so, Isabel," said Mary, looking 
 in her eyes. 
 
 " Our Mother here," replied Isabel, " does the 
 best she can .for us all, and, if I saw any defect 
 in her system, I 'm sure it would be ungenerous in me 
 to speak of it." 
 
 " Isabel," said the shrewd girl, "lam confident you 
 think the school is miserable. I know it is so, and you, 
 who are so much wiser than I, must see it more 
 plainly. I wish my father could hear that old nun 
 play and sing ! It would really set his teeth on edge, 
 for he has a fine ear for music. Poor Mamma ! they 
 really tore me away from her. I was all the company 
 she had ; for Pa's head is so full of politics, and the 
 girls' of levees and soirees, that she hardly sees 
 them. And she is so feeble, too ! I used to walk 
 with her, and read and sing to her ; but I reckon she 
 leads a lonely life now — dear Mamma ! " 
 
 "Tour father must have a high opinion of the 
 school, and of Catholics, when he sent you here so 
 much against the willjjl' your mother," said Isabel. 
 
 " He has not, for I have heard him say as much 
 against Catholics and nunneries as any one. I used 
 to hear him and his friends talk at table about the 
 Catholic influence, which they greatly feared was 
 increasing in the country. I 've no doubt they laugh 
 at Pa now ; " and the giddy girl smiled at the remem- 
 brance of her father's inconsistency. . 
 
 " Your father must have had some good reason for 
 so sudden a change in his feelings." 
 
136 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 " Did you not know, my dear girl, that Pa is a 
 candidate for Governor?" asked Mary. "He is a 
 good, kind father, and would sacrifice anything for 
 his children, but his ambition." 
 
 " But, my dear Mary," said Isabel, " I see no con- 
 nection between his being a candidate for Governor 
 and placing you in a convent-school." 
 
 "Why, Isabel! where have you lived all your 
 days ?" asked Mary. " Not in this region, I 'm sure, 
 or you would see the connection at once. When my 
 father was a candidate for the same office before, 
 he and Dr. L., and several other friends, all at 
 once discovered that they had been greatly deceived 
 in their opinion of the Catholics. They suddenly 
 found that they were an abused people, who hardly 
 enjoyed toleration among us, and that something 
 ought at once to be done to ease the minds of their 
 clergy with regard to the use of the Bible in the 
 public schools. The next thing my dear father ascer- 
 tained was, that no schools in our country could send 
 out perfectly accomplished scholars but convent- 
 schools. So off Sister Helen had to march from 
 Madam Monteagle's, where she had been four years, 
 to make wax flowers and learn embroidery in this place. 
 She was here six months, and Sister Annie three ; and 
 now the nuns get all the credit of their accomplishments. 
 Mamma says it was altogether lost time to them." 
 
 " But, Mary, why did not your sisters oppose such 
 a course?" asked Isabel. 
 
 " Oppose it ! Sister Helen, my dear girl, is Papa's 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 137 
 
 own child. She would crawl on her knees to Rome, 
 and kiss the Pope's slipper, if thereby she could be 
 the daughter of a President, or even of a Governor. 
 Annie is very unlike her ; she will study and- improve 
 her mind, — and, not finding things here as she had 
 expected, she became so unruly that the old Sisters 
 ■were right glad to get rid of her." 
 
 " You must pardon my stupidity, my dear Mary," 
 said Isabel, " but really I do not yet see the bearing 
 all this has on your father becoming Governor." 
 
 " Why, the Catholics, who are very numerous in our 
 state, are bound to vote for the candidate who is most 
 favorable to them ; so, as Papa went several times to 
 mass, had a priest and a bishop at our house to din- 
 ner, and sent the girls here to school, of course he 
 was their man, — or thought he was, at least. But 
 it was too late to have its effect, and he lost the 
 election. But there 's another one ahead, and I 'm the 
 victim this time on ambition's altar. Why, Isabel, 
 it 's as bad as the heathen do, who throw their children 
 into the Ganges ; I hope I shall not be devoured, how- 
 ever, by the great political crocodile." 
 
 "But, my dear girl," said Isabel, "it is not right 
 for you to judge and speak thus disrespectfully of 
 your father's motives. You are bound to honor your 
 father." 
 
 "And sol do," replied Mary; "I honor highly 
 the father ; mind you, it 's the politician I 'm speak- 
 ing of just now. How can I honor the spirit which 
 prompts a naturally upright man to deception and 
 
138 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 double-dealing? A few years ago Papa severely- 
 censured our Chief-magistrate for raising a Roman 
 Catholic to a high political station, saying that in so 
 doing he proved traitor to his country. But now, 
 when an end is to be answered, religious liberty and 
 toleration are the constant themes, and our emigrant 
 population are extolled. I used to hear them always 
 spoken of as 'aliens' or 'foreigners;' but now it is 
 as 'our respected Catholic population,' or 'our Irish 
 fellow-citizens.' " 
 
 "But why," asked Isabel, "should not a Catholic 
 fill an office of state, if he be a suitable man and a 
 true republican ? " 
 
 "If he be a true republican," answered Mary, "he 
 ought to be eligible to any office. But that no true 
 Catholic can be ; at least, so I used to hear my father 
 say ; and you know they are all subjects of a crowned 
 head, and swear allegiance to the Pope. With a true 
 patriot, his country's good is foremost; but with 
 Catholics, the Holy Mother Church claims the first 
 and last thought, — everything is subservient to 
 that." 
 
 " Why, Mary," said Isabel, " you are quite a poli- 
 tician yourself, — quite a little statesman. I never 
 heard a lady talk on politics before." 
 
 " You may think yourself happy not to have been 
 obliged to hear so much on the subject as I have done. 
 I assure you it is no favorite topic with me. I have 
 good reason to dislike it, for it has been the means of 
 
THE COHVENT AND THE MANSE. 139 
 
 destroying our happy home xind estranging our 
 father." 
 
 "Why does not your mother protest?" inquired 
 Isabel. 
 
 " Why, my dear child, she protests all the time, or 
 rather used to do so ; but of late she lets things take 
 their course, for she finds all she can do or say to be 
 of no avail. She has no more influence over Papa 
 now than the cook has. Our house is filled with com- 
 pany such as we never used to have, and Mamma's 
 cares are doubled ; but she does not mind that. Her 
 conscience is troubled about many things she sees and 
 hears ; for my mother fears God, Isabel, — dear, dear 
 Mamma ! " And a burst of tears relieved the heart 
 of the homesick girl. 
 
 " My father would never have sent me here," said 
 Isabel, "had my mother been alive; for, some way or 
 other, she had a great prejudice against convents, and 
 seemed even to reverence her prejudices." 
 
 "Just so kind and tender was Papa a few years 
 ago," said Mary; "but now he breakfasts alone in his 
 room hours after we do ; he dines out, or has company 
 at home ; his evenings are spent in political meetings 
 or club-rooms, and he returns after we have all re- 
 tired ; so we see little of him. I once saw my dear 
 patient Mamma weeping, and when I insisted on 
 knowing her trouble, she said a crown could not repay 
 her for the change in Papa, nor for the tears she had 
 shed. She suffers greatly from fear lest I should be 
 dazzled by the splendors of popery, as Helen was; but 
 
140 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 her fears are all groundless, for I see through the hol- 
 low pretensions of these people. I was tempted last 
 night at vespers to blow out all the wax candles, and 
 exchange them for bread for the starving Irish. It 
 would be' more credit to them to have less light, and 
 bestow more mercy on the thousands of their commu- 
 nion who beg in our streets and throng our almshouses. 
 I don't believe they strive to lighten with their little 
 finger the burden their people impose on us in the 
 way of poor-tax and private charity. These nuns, 
 I'm sure, give nothing." 
 
 " You are judging harshly, Mary," replied Isabel. 
 "I felt just so when I first came here ;" and a crimson 
 blush spread itself over her sad young face, as she 
 called to mind the feelings she had at the house of the 
 Sisters of Charity, and the little cause she had since 
 had to change them. 
 
 "And what do you think now, after a year has 
 flown away?" asked Mary; "have you found good 
 reason to change your views of nuns and convents'? " 
 
 Isabel was startled, for she had scarcely allowed 
 her own heart to question her so closely. " I think 
 that I wronged them in thought, if not in word and 
 deed; for I'm sure they lead a very self-denying 
 life." 
 
 " Suppose they do, — what does their self-denial 
 amount to? How many hungry does it feed, how 
 many naked clothe, or hoAV many tears does it dry 
 up 7" 
 
 "'Honor to whom honor,' dear Mary," replied 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 141 
 
 Isabel. " You surely have not forgotten so soon 
 how kind they were to you when you were ill, last 
 week." 
 
 " To me ! " exclaimed Mary ; " and were they not 
 well paid for it? A barbarian will render you an 
 equivalent for your money. No one who keeps 
 boarders calculates to throw them out of doors when 
 they are sick. Now, what good, holy deeds have you 
 seen done since you came here, which could not have 
 been done better abroad in the world of sorrow? " 
 
 Isabel paused before she attempted an answer. She 
 first thought of the many prayers offered there ; but 
 they were no more availing than if offered elsewhere. 
 Her mind ran from one labor to another ; but her lips 
 were sealed on that point. 
 
 "Could yoii only have known my sweet Leonore, 
 you would never thus harshly accuse the whole sister- 
 hood," she said. 
 
 " I doubt not that she was an angel of a nun, sent 
 here for a season to bind up broken and homesick 
 hearts ; but I fear this generation will never again see 
 the like of her in a convent. The inmates are usually 
 middle-aged women, disgusted with life or disappointed 
 in its hopes, who shut themselves out from the beauti- 
 ful things of God, and then growl at those whom they 
 see through their prison-bars. They labor as teachers, 
 and receive in return a support, and have the certainty 
 of being taken care of as long as they live. This is 
 more than any of them could get outside the convent, 
 for not one in ten of them could teach in the public 
 
142 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 schools at the north. I fear they have secured you 
 in the Tvay mother feared they would reach me, — 
 through a loving heart. They saw your weak spot, 
 dear Isabel ; and so, when the blessed Leonore was 
 gone, the Lady Superior began to lavish her affection 
 on you." 
 
 f Why on me more than on other scholars 1 " asked 
 Isabel. 
 
 ' ' Per many reasons. There are not many Protestant 
 girls here just now : some of these are gained, others 
 are given up as hopeless ; but you are in a transition 
 state ; and, if I am not mistaken, you are an object 
 worth striving for. But beware how you give the 
 least encouragement about taking the white veil ; — 
 that is a forerunner of the black veil, — and then 
 comes a living death to such as you and I. 0, life is 
 too bright for us to give it up yet, Isabel." 
 
 " I should not think it would be brighter to you 
 than to me, after what you 've been saying," said 
 Isabel. 
 
 " We 're under the cloud now, but I am looking 
 for sunshine soon," said Mary. " When this miser- 
 able election (which I hope Pa will lose) is over. 
 Ma and I are going to win him back. He will see 
 how false are all other friends and other hopes than 
 those centred in his home, and come back to us, heart 
 and soul." 
 
 " Is it right to desire the downfall of your father's 
 political hopes, dear Mary ? " 
 
 "Yes; because his- future happiness depends upon 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 143 
 
 it. If father's and sister's ambition were once grati- 
 fied, it would know no bounds hereafter. Should he 
 once be Governor, he would next sigh for the Presi- 
 dency, and then, for aught I know, for the Papal 
 Chair ! Only think, dear Isa, should he get there, 
 he would have to shut up dear Ma in a convent, for 
 you know the Pope can't follow the example of his 
 apostolical predecessor, St. Peter, and have a wife." 
 
 "Is your sister a real Catholic now 7^^ asked 
 Isabel ; "or was she only prepossessed in favor of that 
 religion while here 1 " 
 
 " My sister is nothing in sincerity. She has gone 
 back into the gay world she left for a time, and there 
 finds all her enjoyment. She still, however, wears 
 the cross and rosary, abstains from meat on Friday, 
 and goes occasionally to mass. But should Papa, 
 after all he has done, lose the election, I think her 
 religion, rosary, cross, image and all, will be thrown 
 away. Her eyes and his will then be opened to the 
 true character of those who are flattering him, to 
 accomplish their own. schemes." 
 
 " Well, my dear," said Isabel, " you do not pretend 
 to say that all Catholics are hypocritical." 
 
 "I believe many of them are very sincere, especially 
 among the more ignorant. The Winder their eyes, the 
 more earnestly do they press on, trying to grope their 
 way to heaven. With them, 'ignorance is the mother of 
 devotion.' But you see that, as the emigrants become 
 prosperous and intelligent and associate with Ameri- 
 cans, their confidence is shaken, and their hearts are 
 
144 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 opened to the claims of a purer faith. Hundreds 
 yearly either renounce Catholicism altogether, or 
 silently slip from out the fold." 
 
 " I cannot deny what you say, Mary, because I am 
 acquainted with no ignorant Catholics. All the 
 Catholics here are as respectable and as intelligent as 
 the Protestant scholars ; but none seem very strict 
 Catholics." 
 
 " Perhaps you are right, Isabel. And is it not a 
 shame that it should be so, — that the poor are shut 
 out from the means of knowledge 1 Of all the thou- 
 sand half-clothed Irish children that crowd our streets 
 or almshouses, not one can find a home here, — and 
 this a charitable institution, — while poor Protestant 
 girls will be received at any price ! Why are not 
 scores of their own poor children brought here to be 
 cared for and instructed, if the nuns cannot go out 
 into the world to do them good 1 What conceivable 
 good is accomplished here 1 " 
 
 " As much as is professed to be done in any 
 Protestant school of high order. This is a ladies' 
 school, not an orphan asylum or almshouse." 
 
 " You 're right, my dear, it is neither of the latter; 
 but you surely are aware that these nuns lay claim to a 
 benevolence and self-denial in their labors to which 
 Protestant teachers never pretend. There is no charity 
 in their establishment ; for while some Catholic girls, 
 whose fathers are struggling to give them an educa- 
 tion, pay the full price here for tuition, a Protestant 
 girl can get in for half price, and in one instance my 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 145 
 
 sister procured for one in comfortable circumstances 
 free admission." 
 
 " Indeed ! " exclaimed Isabel, ■with a look .of wonder. 
 " That does not seem like the persecuting spirit with 
 which you charged them. Surely this is loving their 
 enemies, and doing good to those who hate them." 
 
 "Love is not the motive-power, but a spirit of 
 proselytism. One soul gained from among heretics is 
 worth compassing a world for." 
 
 " Well, Mary, I thank Heaven," said Isabel, " that 
 I am not so uncharitable or suspicious of the motives 
 of others. Did our teachers make no effort for our 
 spiritual good, you would say that they cared not 
 though we lost our souls. You are not your own 
 noble self when you talk on this subject." 
 
 " Isabel," asked Mary, gravely looking in her 
 eyes, as if to read her heart, " are you a Protestant 
 or a^ Catholic?" 
 
 "I? Why, a Protestant, to be sure. Did you not 
 know that? " rejoined Isabel. 
 
 "I knew that you were the child of Protestant 
 parents, but it seems to me you are bending towards 
 opposite views ; and I predict that you will yet become 
 a Roman Catholic," said Mary. 
 
 Isabel looked wounded, and said, " I am only de- 
 fending the character of those who are not here to 
 speak for themselves. Still, I admit" — and she 
 hesitated — "I do admire much in their books and 
 forms of worship. Convent life, also, has a charm for 
 me ; it accords with my feelings. If there was such 
 10 
 
146 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 a sisterhood among Protestants, I believe I should join 
 them." 
 
 " And I believe you will join these" said Mary, 
 " and thus cast off a sick father and a young sister, who 
 greatly need your care and guidance. This would 
 be far from keeping God's command to obey and 
 honor your parents. My sweet Isabel, I prophesy "for 
 your dowry a cell, a serge gown, a rosary, and a 
 cross, with the inexpressible pleasure of killing your- 
 self with labor, as Leonore did." 
 
 " It will take more than I have yet seen," said 
 Isabel, " to make me abjure the faith of my mother." 
 
 " It will not take much, if you only venerate Pro- 
 testanism because it was hallowed by your mother's 
 acceptance. You will soon yield, and fall into the 
 snare which is laid for you. Now, Isabel," continued 
 Mary, " I am not a Christian, but I have a belief of 
 my own, which is also my dear mother's faith. But, 
 should she change her views to-morrow, it would not 
 shake mine in the least. She has taught me reasons 
 and principleSi and to these I shall adhere as long as 
 I believe them to accord with God's word. I hate all 
 kinds of cant, Protestant or Catholic, and should 
 honor these women if they came out boldly and said 
 that they taught to enrich themselves, or their order. 
 But no; it is all for the good of the pupils; and they, 
 dear martyrs, sacrifice life and all its charms, and re- 
 ceive as the fruit of their toil crusts which a dog 
 would aot eat, and a hard bed. Some of them live 
 just so, I doubt, not, for they look starved and frozen; 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 147 
 
 but I guess the old Duchess and her favorites have 
 grand lunches when we are asleep, — indeed, I smelt 
 some savory dish the night I lay awake with the 
 toothache." 
 
 "0, you giddy girl ! " said Isabel. " But tell me 
 what you meant by calling the Lady Mother a 
 ductess?" 
 
 "Why, she is always talking of the high station 
 she resigned, to come here and toil for the love of 
 souls, — Protestant souls, remember. When speaking 
 'of people in this country, she calls them the lower 
 order, or the common people. And, for my part, I 
 am American enough to endure my being classed 
 among them. I hope these Romanists may never suc- 
 ceed in their war against the interests of the common 
 people. Woe to our nation when they can overthrow 
 our public schools!" 
 
 "They say it is to divide, not to overthrow them, 
 at which they ar^ aiming," replied Isabel. 
 
 " Well, division is overthrow, in this case. ' Divide 
 and conquer' is their motto; for they would not sus- 
 tain such schools as we now have, were a portion of 
 the public money given them. Let the poor emigrants 
 be educated and kindly treated, and they will make 
 good citizens. But, while they iri such masses remain 
 ignorant, they are a dangerous people, because they 
 are the tools of designing men, who aim at the subver- 
 sion of our liberties." 
 
 "Well, if these Sisters are misguided, they certainly 
 sacrifice much feeling to live thus. If they are 
 
148 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 wrong, I honor their consistency. Few women, for con- 
 science' sake, would even dress as they do,"said Isabel. 
 " Why, Isabel, more thought and conversation has 
 been devoted to dress here, within a few weeks, than at 
 Almack's. Every day, at recreation, we hear nothing 
 but about the new white cap which has taken the 
 place of the old black one. I have been asked by 
 each one how it became her, and each one has told 
 me from what order of foreign nuns the fashion came 
 to this country. I think it worse to take pride 
 in a hideous-looking garment than in a becoming 
 one, because it is a mockery of religion, which is 
 worse than a mere sacrifice to woman's vanity. The 
 head-dress makes all the poor, pale nuns look as if 
 arrayed for their burial. Isabel, I often speak harshly, 
 but I love many of these girls, and pity them all. 
 Their lives are sad enough with all the love we can 
 give them, — I mean the younger ones, for the very 
 few who ever grow old in convents are the spirits 
 born to rule. The others are always sad-looking, 
 and often they come to us with eyes swollen with 
 weeping. If these gates should be thrown open 
 to-morrow by the strong arm of the law, I do not 
 think more than five nuns would remain here of their 
 own free choice. But, though their hearts are break- 
 ing with repentance of their romantic choice, or with 
 longing for home and their mothers, they must keep 
 it a secret ; for no mother can receive a letter from 
 her child immured here, unless it is filled with praise 
 of the Superior, and allusions to her own happiness. 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 149 
 
 I suppose you are aware that, after the Sisters retire 
 at night, Sister Peter Humility passes through the 
 long dormitory, and takes their clothing all away, to 
 be kept till morning. Now, why is this extreme care, 
 if not to prevent the escape of the imprisoned girls ? 
 If it were in my power, I would take a dozen of 
 them with me on the day of my own release." 
 
 " Your heart is kind, Mary," said Isabel, " and I 
 wish you and I had more wisdom than we have to 
 know the right way." 
 
CHAPTER Xm. 
 
 Blessed are the homesick, for they sball reach home. 
 
 Stillino. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Vail, with Virginia, Sam, and little 
 Charlie, Tvere returning frora a visit in a remote part of 
 the parish, just as the full clear moon was rising. The 
 parents had been engaged in serious conversation, to 
 ■which the younger of the party listened attentively. 
 After a pause, Charlie, who had been gazing upward 
 as he lay upon his mother's lap, raised himself and 
 said, " Is heaven in the moon, perhaps, Papal" 
 
 "What put that in your head, my boy?" asked 
 the father. 
 
 " 0, because jt looked so peaceful and holy up 
 there, — such a beautiful place to rest in, — I'm 
 sure ho one could have the headache there. I wish 
 I was a bird with strong wings, — I would ily up and 
 see ; then I would come back and tell you, for I have 
 heard you. Pa and Ma, say you did not know much 
 about heaven yet. I wish I was a bird ! " 
 
 " If you were a bird, my boy, you would have no 
 soul,^you would not care to know about heaven," 
 said the father. 
 
 "I would like to be a boy with wings, then," 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 151 
 
 replied the pale child, "for I want to know where 
 heaven is." 
 
 " We know enough about it, darling," said Mrs. 
 Vail, " to make us very anxious to go there, and to 
 have others go there too. Wherever heaven is, or 
 whatever else is there, this we know, my love, Christ 
 is there ; and that would make any place lovely. 
 There 's no headache where He is, my darling, "added 
 the mother, as she kissed the brow on which the little 
 thin hand was pressed. 
 
 " Yes, I remember that now," the child replied, 
 '"l^was in my Sabbath-school lesson, you know, 
 Mamma, — ' There shall be neither sorrow nor crying, 
 neither shall there be any more pain.' " 
 
 " Pa," asked Sam, " is that a man or a boy ahead 
 of us ? He is dressed like a man, but is too short." 
 
 "It is an Irishman, I think," said Mr. Vail, 
 " probably coming to work on the rail- road." 
 
 " Why ! " said Virginia, " his hat is large enough 
 for an umbrella." 
 
 " Yes," said Sam, " an Irishman always wears a hat 
 too big for him. If perchance he has one of the right 
 size, or too small, you may be sure 'twas a gift. 
 Why is that, Virgie?" 
 
 " I don't know," was the reply ; " although I have 
 noticed that when decently dressed an Irishman 
 always wears a great hat resting on his eyebrows. 
 Perhaps it is that he may get his money's worth, 
 for a large hat costs no more than a small one." 
 
 " Sam," said Mr. Vail, turning round as they 
 
152 THE CONVENT AND THK MANSE. 
 
 passed the miniature man, " I really think that is 
 Jim McCorkle." 
 
 " I thought he walked like him," said Sam ; "but it 
 cannot be he, sir. Jim has his winter-quarters in the 
 House of Correction ; and, besides, how could he get 
 a long-tailed coat and a man's hat ? " 
 
 " 0, the old lady could easily manage that. She 
 is not so poor as Mamma takes her to be," said Mr. 
 Vail. " I should not be surprised, after all, if the 
 priest had interested himself to get Jim out; his 
 mother's tongue can accomphsh almost anything. I 
 will wait a few moments, till he comes lip." 
 
 But a few minutes did not suffice to produce the 
 traveller. Sam looked out, and saw in the moonlight 
 the figure beneath a tree, seated on a stone. He 
 called out "Jim!" but silence followed, — it was 
 either a stranger, or one who wished to be thought such. 
 
 "I'll find out to-morrow whether that is my old 
 fellow-laborer in the wood-lot," said Sam. "I sup- 
 pose he has run off in disguise." 
 
 " Mamma," said Anna, as soon as they entered the 
 house, "your old protigie, Mrs. McCorkle, has been 
 here, in great distress, inquiring for you. Some 
 Irishman who works at the depot came in from Boston 
 to-day, and told her that, unless she could raise twenty 
 dollars to pay the fine, Jim would be sent to the 
 State-prison. She seems half distracted about him, 
 and says she '11 ne?er see him again." 
 
 " I rather think she 'Usee him to-night," said Sam; 
 " and I should not wonder if he had absconded, and 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 153 
 
 if ste knew lie was coming, too. She, no doubt, had 
 a finger in his escape, and means to secrete him ! " 
 
 " I really wish you would not have her coming here, 
 Ma ! " said Anna. " So long as she comes you can 
 do Nora no good, for the poor thing stands in great 
 awe of her. The old woman not only scolded her 
 well for coming in to prayers, but also reported her to 
 the priest. See her deception. After all that, she 
 asks to come in to worship herself, when here, and 
 sheds tears, and seems so pleased with what she hears ! 
 She has some understanding with the priest, or she 
 would fear being reported by Nora." 
 
 " Anna, she is welcome to all she sees or hears 
 here. Her deception can injure no one but herself," 
 said Mrs. Vail. 
 
 " I don't know that. Mamma ! " said the shrewd 
 girl. " I have my fears that the old lady has had a 
 mission appointed her here. I overheard her asking 
 Nora ' when the swate nun was coming.' Nora did 
 not know whom she meant ; and she told her Father 
 O'Keefe wished to know when Isabel came, for he 
 had letters about her. She says she is a swate Cath- 
 olic, and has money enough to build a church all 
 herself; but that we all hate and persecute her." 
 
 "Is it possible that he already knows about Isabel, 
 and is setting his trap for her ?" exclaimed Mr. Vail. 
 "He will, I trust, be disappointed in his prey, this 
 time. I should not let Mrs. McCorkle see Isabel at 
 all," he said to Mrs. Vail. " I would not gratify her 
 desire to proselyte. I see through the plan. The 
 
154 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 nuns have vrritten to the priest to tratch over Isabel ; 
 and, as he cannot well do so while she is here, he is 
 making a tool of Mrs. McCorkle. Surely they are 
 ' wiser in their generation than the children of light.' 
 A young girl cannot leave school, to visit her friends, 
 but a correspondence takes place, and a watch is kept 
 over her. But God can deliver the prey from the 
 power of the lion. Their jealous cunning should be 
 a rebuke upon our neglect in watching for souls." 
 
 " 0, uncle ! " said Virginia, " how strange it seems 
 that we had to urge a visit from sister ! — she felt so 
 conscientiously opposed to going to a nunnery, and so 
 impatient for her year to close ! Now, she seems to 
 love that holy mother — as she calls the Superior — 
 more than her dear sick father or her sister. If she 
 should become a Catholic, how would our mother feel 
 in heaven, if she could know it there ! " 
 
 " My dear Virginia," said Mr. Vail, " I hope Isa- 
 bel will not be led astray from the true faith ; but, 
 should she be, our anxiety ought rather to be how she 
 would appear in the sight of a holy God than in the 
 sight of her mother. God spared your pious mother 
 long enough to instruct you well in the truths of 
 religion. For this inestimable blessing you are ac- 
 countable to Him. I have feared lest all you young 
 people, through sincere respect for your parents, may 
 have taken their word on these points, instead of 
 searching God's word for yourselves. If you are 
 building your belief alone on your parents, you will 
 fall an easy prey to the wily. Have you, Virginia, 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 155 
 
 ever examined the Bible for yourself, to see 
 whether the doctrines we hold agree with its divine 
 teachings?" 
 
 "No, sir," replied Virginia; "because I never 
 had a doubt of their truth. Still, I believe I could, 
 without examination, mention proof-passages for every 
 doctrine." 
 
 "Well," replied the father, "we will look at this 
 surbject together. There are many foes to the simple 
 doctrines of the gospel, and you all need to be well 
 armed foy their defence." 
 
 " Let us wait till sister comes," said Virginia, 
 " that she, too, may have the benefit of the exam- 
 ination." 
 
 " Would it not be better to begin to-morrow 1 " 
 asked Mrs. Vail, " or Isab'el may think your researches 
 have special reference to her." 
 
 " I do not intend," replied her husband, " to enter 
 into long and intricate arguments, but simply to 
 examine God's word to ascertain what is truth. 
 Guided by that, we cannot go astray. A woe is writ- 
 ten against such as not only take from, but add to, 
 the words of that book. As long as we adhere closely 
 to the gospel in its revealed simplicity we are in no 
 danger; but, once allow any addition to it, and we 
 are afloat upon a sea of human speculation, and may 
 take up with cunningly-devised fables. To-morrow, 
 dears, we will begin to look over this matter, and I 
 will propose a plan to be pursued in the examination." 
 
 To-morrow / 0, delusive word I How many, be- 
 
156 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 fore this loving father, have said to-morrow with 
 reference to hopes never to be realized J It was to all 
 this happy band a sad to-morrow, for they watched 
 and wept beside the frail little household darling. To 
 him alone it was a bright day ; for it brought him 
 nearer to the home he so much longed for, where 
 " they shall no more say, I am sick," even to the 
 bosom of Him "whom, not having seen, he loved." 
 
 The morning sun, which usually awakened joy in 
 this family circle, revealed the fever burning on the 
 cheek and kindling in the eye of precious Charlie. 
 Lessons were forgotten, all unnecessary work laid aside, 
 and the long-expected visitor almost passed out of mind. 
 All thoughts were centred on one hallowed spot — the 
 , crib in the study, for thither the little invalid had 
 asked to be moved. Every hand was ready to relieve 
 the mother in bathing the high full brow and flaxen 
 locks of the darling sufferer. How many silent prayers 
 went up to Heaven is known only to the Hearer of prayer. 
 But there was one full heart there which in all its 
 bursting anguish could not pray. The mother asked 
 not her child's life ; she was resigned if God would but 
 speedily take him to rest. But to see him suffer, — 
 the lamb of her bosom, on whom she had feared to let 
 the wind too roughly breathe, for whose aching head 
 no pillow but her breast was ever soft enough ; — to see 
 him lie in agony, not knowing her, and afraid of all 
 around him ; to know that he might lie thus for long 
 weeks ere the fever reached his vitals ; — this was 
 more than she could bear, and her faith faltered. 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 157 
 
 " He is dead, trouble not the Master," was written 
 as in flame before her whenever she knelt to ask for 
 his life. But the cup which her Father was holding 
 to her lips she could not drink with patience till she 
 had passed through fiery temptations. But the grace 
 of God prevailed; and, after agonizing days and 
 nights, she, who would gladly have borne the pain 
 herself, submitted to the chastening rod, and gave up 
 her darling into His hands. Soon a sweet serenity 
 sat on that little face, so long distorted with pain. 
 The conflict was over. The Christian mother had 
 passed through the floods, but they had not been suf- 
 fered to overwhelm her. The Saviour was not 
 wounded in the house of His friends. 
 
 All hope for Charlie's life was gone. He was 
 given to Christ a willing sacrifice ; and peace reigned 
 in that blessed Christian family. 
 
 It was in this state of things that Isabel arrived. 
 As every hand was employed, and every heart full, 
 she was consigned to her sister's care. 
 
 0, how delightful were the first hours of nleeting 
 to the warm-hearted Virginia ! Again would she 
 have the joy of sleeping in her sister's arms. The 
 strong little heart, which had borne up so bravely 
 against sorrow, could not calmly bear her joy, and 
 bursts of tears helped to unburden it of its blessed 
 weight. They knelt, as of old, beside one bed, and 
 pr&yed ; then, folded in each other's arms, lay down 
 to rest. 
 
 " Sister," said Virginia, " I love you more to-night 
 
158 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 than ever before ; and I almost fear to take my arms 
 from around you, lest I should lose you. Let us not 
 part for one hour till Papa comes home ! Only one 
 year more ! How, soon the last year slipped away ! " 
 
 Isabel returned the fond embrace. 
 
 "You -will promise, won't you, sister?" asked 
 Virginia. " You will be so happy here ; you have no 
 idea how good and lovely they all are. Not one harsh 
 word or cold look have they given me in a long year, 
 — just think, when I say and do so many foolish 
 things ! The whole family are the most cheerful and 
 happy persons I ever met." 
 
 "They are also very religious, are they not?" 
 asked Isabel. 
 
 "0, very ! Everything seems to be connected in 
 some way with religion ; that is, it is so with uncle 
 and aunt and cousin Jane, the real, true Christians," 
 said Virginia. "And even the others, who are not 
 members of the church, seem very good and lovely. 
 Anna and Sam are, quite different from Jane, — much 
 more lively ; but both of them say they want to be 
 Christians." 
 
 "Why don't they become such, then?" asked the 
 elder sister. 
 
 "I don't know," said Virginia; "but it is not 
 from the feelings which made me dislike religion when 
 I was a child. When our dear mother used to talk 
 of holy things she always wept ; so when she read her 
 Bible, and came from meeting. She seemed less 
 happy in her religious duties than when she had com- 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 159 
 
 pany, or was very busy. I remember, -when quite 
 small, hoping to be a Christian before death, but 
 dreading religion just then because it was so gloomy. 
 "What can be the cause of the difference here 1 Aunty 
 is never so cheerful as when they talk or read of 
 Christ ; and rehgion does not seem to interfere with 
 their daily duties, but is like a part of their life. I 
 used to think all Christians were like Ma, and 
 all worldly people as buoyant and happy as Aunt 
 Jessie." 
 
 A light tap was heard at the door, and Mrs. Vail 
 entered, in her wrapping-gown. She had left Anna 
 with Charlie, and lain down in a little room opening 
 from theirs to rest; but, hearing the conyersation 
 between her nieces, could not sleep. 
 
 " Dear children," she said, seating herself on their 
 bed, " I do not wonder that you and others are sur- 
 prised at many things you see in professing Christians. 
 But what Virginia noticed in her dear mother was 
 her frailty rather than her sin. We were naturally 
 of very different temperaments. When we were chil- 
 dren, I would roam the fields, jump the rope, and dress 
 dolls, while sister sat quietly assisting our mother, or 
 poring over some grave book alone in her room. 
 Our parents rejoiced to see her so dead to the world, 
 and encouraged much in her which it would have been 
 their wisdom to check. She had so deep and constant 
 a sense of her un worthiness that she hardly dared to 
 look to Christ — the very thing she needed most to 
 do — to give her peace and gladness. She felt that 
 
160 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 she was a great sinner, but did not remember, as she 
 should, that Christ was a great Saviour ; and thus, 
 not taking him fully at his word,^- ' Come unto me 
 all ye that labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give 
 you rest,' — darkness brooded over her mind and 
 clouded her hopes. While in this very tender state she 
 was forced to leave home, and.was thrown into society 
 where the Saviour had no place. At first she was 
 harshly treated, and her heart almost broken. Then, 
 in your father's family, although caressed and loved, 
 she was equally shut out from all help in the divine 
 life. Our parents, after her marriage, often bitterly 
 upbraided themselves for sending her out so young to 
 act for herself; and nothing but the limited support 
 which the church at N — — allowed their pastor 
 could have reconciled them to her exile. Her own 
 hopes became brighter after this ; but her anxieties 
 for her husband and children lay like a burden on her 
 heart. This was why she was sad. Never attribute 
 the gloom you may see in a Christian to the religion 
 of Christ. Few have the palliations your mother 
 had. As a general rule, when you see a Christian 
 habitually gloomy, you may conclude that he is nat- 
 urally of a melancholy disposition, or that he has a 
 little, but only a little, religion. There is scarce a 
 more unhappy person in the world than one who has 
 just grace enough to see his own sinfulness, but not 
 enough to live near to Christ, the fountain of purity 
 and peace. If you, dear Isabel, wish to rid yourself 
 of your sadness, live close to Jesus. And if you, 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 161 
 
 Virginia, wish to increase your happiness, seek Him 
 early while He may be found. But I must hasten to. 
 Charlie, for Anna calls me. Good-night, darlings;" 
 and Mrs. Vail bent over the sisters and gave them an 
 almost mother's kiss. 
 
 Charlie was in a spasm. The whole family gathered 
 round him with tears and fond embraces. The father 
 held him in his arms, while the mother sat kissing 
 him and bathing his cold feet. The cousins and the 
 sisters wept in silence, while Sam was gone for the 
 physician. Faithful Nora wrung her hands, and with 
 an occasional "och! och!" would mutter a half- 
 audible prayer. Then her agony would seem more 
 than she could bear ; and, rising, she would fold her 
 hands tightly over her breast, and rapidly walk the 
 floor. 
 
 The doctor soon came in with Sam, who exclaimed, 
 as he looked upon his fading brother, " 0, how 
 changed since I went out ! " 
 
 " Is it death 7 " inquired the father of the young 
 physician. 
 
 He was silent ; but all knew the sad meaning of his 
 silence. 
 
 There was no loud grief, no noise in that chamber 
 of death, to fright the frail spirit. As the family stood 
 around the father, poor Nora first caught sight of the 
 glazing eye, and asked, with an affrighted countenance, 
 "Sure, it is not dying that he is, sir?" 
 
 " Yes, Nora," said Mr. Vail, " the poor little lamb 
 you have loved so much, and been so kind to, is going 
 11 
 
162 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 now; he'll read no more to you, sing no more for 
 you." 
 
 Mr. Vail's voice was drowned by the shrieks of the 
 girl, as she threw herself on her knees before the 
 child. "Och! holy Virgin! sure it is not his fault, 
 poor lamby ! Och, och ! why did n't I leave my place 
 and wander widout a house to me head, before I lived 
 to see this day, — and I that -knew this day was coming 
 too ! Och, darlin ! yeea that was an angel here, and 
 can't be an angel in hiven ! " 
 
 "What do you mean by that, Nora, my good girl?" 
 asked Mrs. Vail, who had been striving in vain to 
 quiet her. 
 
 "0, sweet lady, sure it's yees and hisself that 
 ought to suffer for this, and not him, pretty bird ! 
 Och!" she cried, wringing her hands, "that those 
 swate eyes should forever be shut up in darkness, and 
 never see Mary, nor her Son, nor the saints ! " 
 
 " Why do you think he will never see Christ, my 
 good girl 1 " asked the father. 
 
 " Sure yous niver had him baptized nor made into 
 a Christian,— so he '11 be shut up in darkness forever. 
 0, but yees were cruel to the poor swate lamb. 0, 
 why did n't I do as Mrs. McCorkle bid me, and take 
 him to Father O'Keefe unknownst to yee^? 0, she's 
 the knowing crater ; and only that he wasnbig enough 
 to till on me, I 'd had him baptized long ago, and 
 saved his soul." 
 
 '!His soul is safe, Nora," said the mother, and 
 with a placid face she seized this solemn opportunity 
 
TUB CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 163 
 
 to hold up the only -way of life before the bigoted girl, 
 the sceptical young man, and the -wavering Isabel. 
 Her beautiful confidence in the Redeemer, her resig- 
 nation to His will in the trying hour, threw the light 
 of heaven over the otherwise gloomy room. 
 
 Christif^ns may engage in controversy with un- 
 believers, fortifying their ground by the opinions of the 
 great and wise ; they may explain and argue and entreat ; 
 but this the opponent can" stand, for he can do the 
 same. But when one who never felt the sustaining 
 grace of God sees a Christian bear up, not only sub- 
 missively but joyfully, under His chastening hand, 
 — when he sees him taking God at his word, in the 
 calm and certain belief that all things are working 
 together for his good, — r then he feels the truth of the 
 religion which his words deny. More can be accom- 
 plished by bearing patiently the yoke of Christ than 
 by speaking with the tongues of angels. 
 
 Charlie turned slowly round, and, in his own soft 
 tone, a^ked for drink. Mrs. Vail put the cup to his 
 pale lips, and said, " Do you know me, Charhe?" 
 
 " yes, Mamma, but I'm so tired I must go to 
 sleep. Good-night, Papa, Mamma; " and, raising his 
 soft eyes upward, he added, with a smile, " Yes ; in a 
 moment." 
 
 "What do you say, my love 1 " asked the father, 
 who still held the dying boy in his arms. Charlie 
 gave him no answer, but again repeated, looking up 
 with clasped hands, " I 'm coming in a moment — just 
 as soon as I kiss them all ; — when I say ' Good-by ' 
 
164 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 I'll come. Good-by, sweet Mamma, — good-by, Pa, 
 — good-by, Sister Jane — " 
 
 " Kiss him, dear cMldren," said Mr. Vail, as the 
 little arms were stretched out ; — " quietly, for this is 
 the house of God and the gate of heaven." 
 
 Every lip was kissed, and every neck encircled by 
 his arms. " Now, good-night! " — and he was gone. 
 
 To whom was he speaking as he gazed upward 1 
 Who shall say that angel messengers were not there, 
 and visible to his passing spirit 1 
 
 There was no loud grief in the chamber of death. 
 The little form was laid in his crib and covered. All 
 then knelt, — even Richard, who was not wont to bow 
 before his Maker, — and, in the low tone of anguish, 
 Mr. Vail called upon Him who had wounded^ to heal 
 their broken hearts. He thanked God, that, while 
 many wretched parents wept over their ruuied chil- 
 dren, they were permitted to sorrow not without hope ; 
 for the lost was now an angel in heaven. 0, how the 
 father plead with the Redeemer, that this bereavement 
 might be sanctified to those who were out of Qhrist, — 
 to all present ; not one was forgotten. 
 
 The young physician, rising from his knees, stooped 
 over the crib and impressed a kiss on the lovely face, 
 with the inward thought that there must, after all, 
 be a home for the spirit which had just fled, — that 
 there must be a sustaining power of which hejwas 
 ignorant. 
 
CHAPTER XrV. 
 
 A creature of amphibioug nature, — 
 On land a beast, a fisb in water ; 
 That always preys on grace or sin, 
 A sheep without, a wolf within- 
 
 Butler. 
 
 Before her face her handkerchief she spread. 
 To hide the floods of tears sh^ did not shed. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 " Theeb 's a poor body in the kitchen would like to 
 be a-spaking to you, Miss," said Nora to Isabel, the 
 morning after Charlie's death.' 
 
 " What can she want with me, Nora? " 
 
 " 0, sure, she 's always wanting something of my 
 misthress, and, as she 's so throubled now about the 
 poor darlint, — rest his soul ! — she must throuble 
 somebody else. She 's had great sorrow on the land 
 and sea ; but she 's got a stiff heart yit, has Mrs. 
 McCorkle." 
 
 " Tell Virginia to see her, my good girl; she wants 
 her, no doubt, as she could not tell her trouble to a 
 stranger." 
 
 " Couldn't she, then, dear ! " asked Nora, with a 
 smile of contempt; "let Mrs. McCorkle alone for 
 
166 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 that. If herself starves at last, it 'II not be because 
 she did n't ask bread, — fait it wont! " 
 
 Virginia was sent to Mrs. McCorkle by Isabel, who 
 was in no mood to form new acquaintances. She 
 soon, however, returned, saying, in a low voice, to 
 Isabel, "You alone will answer. She says I'm so 
 innocent and happy she has n't the heart to take the 
 shine off my face with her troubles ; but, I suspect, 
 she thinks I 've heard too much of her blarney, and 
 prefers new game. Don't give her much, sister, if 
 she has come for charity ; for she is strong and has 
 plenty of work, — she cannot be needy." 
 
 Isabel entered the kitchen, from which she heard 
 cheerful tones proceeding ; but, no sooner had Mrs. 
 McCorkle caught a glimpse of her in the passage than 
 the clean checked apron was raised to her eyes, and 
 she began" rocking to and fro, the picture of despair. 
 Isabel was all unused' to such characters, and her 
 feelings were moved. She took a seat near the heart- 
 broken widow. Mrs. McCorkle rose, and, making a 
 low curtsey, kissed Isabel's hand, and dropped on it 
 tears which were as mechanically shed as the water 
 from a. jet d'eau. 
 
 " My poor woman ! " Isabel began. But Mrs. 
 McCorkle whispered, " Sure, dear, I couldn't bear to 
 have my sorrow spoke of before the likes of her," 
 pointing to Nora, who, all untouched, was scouring a 
 tin pan with great zeal. 
 
 " You may come up to my room, my poor woman," 
 said Isabel, in a compassionate tone. As she led the 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 167 
 
 way, the widow turned round and smiled and nodded 
 to Nora, as much as to say, " I 've managed the 
 whole of them this time ! " 
 
 Isabel closed the door, and said, " I am sorry you 
 could not see my aunt, but I think that in a few days 
 she will be able to attend to all her duties again." 
 
 " 'Dade thin, dear, I'm not sorry; for it 's your- 
 self I been wanting to see. Misthress Vail is a lady 
 indeed, but I 've throubled her a great deal with my 
 sorrow the last while, and I couldn't expect her to 
 care for the likes of me, as don't belong to her reli- 
 gion. Och, but I 've been dealt hard wid for my 
 religion ! " 
 
 " That would make no difference with my aunt, I 
 am sure," said Isabel ; " but what did you want, if you 
 had seen her?" 
 
 " Sure, dear, it 's a son I 've got, that lies so heavy 
 on my heart. He drove my own cow to the market 
 to sell her, and get one as would give more milk, and 
 don't you believe they tuk him up for it! " 
 " What did they do to him ? " asked Isabel. 
 " Tuk him up, dear, them rascals as Avears a 
 sign on their hats, and shut him up in the House o' 
 Corriction, — him as I was so tinder of all his life, 
 and his father killed too on the ould rail-road ;" — and 
 Mrs. McCorkle burst into a flood of voluntary tears. 
 " Could not some of your neighbors testify to his 
 good intentions and honesty ? " 
 
 " Sure they could ; but, instead of that, when he 
 sint for two ould milk-men as had knew him since he 
 
168 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 landed, and seen him every day, did n't they say they 
 knowed nothing aboot his honesty, and that they 
 ■would n't be bondg for him, and he had worked for 
 them both as long as they wanted him 7" 
 
 " Why were they so inhuman?" asked the simple- 
 hearted girl. 
 
 " 0, there 's a reason for it, dear, as would n't be 
 right for me to tell here in his riverence's own house. 
 I suppose you 'd think it was ungrateful in me," she 
 added, in a whisper, " after the bits of food I 've got 
 here." 
 
 "I'm sure it wouldn't be anything against my 
 aunt, for she is good and kind to every one. But 
 what can I do for you in your trouble, my good 
 woman?" 
 
 "Well, dear, you see I'm thrying to git Jim out 
 of the House o' Corriction ; and all the Sin the poor 
 lad. is guilty of is that he was horn a thrue Catholic, 
 and couldn't change to please anybody, — not if 
 they 'd make him prisident. If he 'd a turned Pro- 
 testant they 'd niver put him in there, — och ! och ! 
 Now, dear heart, I wint last night to Father O'Keefe 
 for a little consolation, and the holy man says to me, 
 ' Would n't the clergyman near yoU hilp you to raise 
 the fine and buy him out?' I tould his riverence, 
 'Dade they would not for a popish, as they calls us ; 
 and thin his riverence says, ' Has the swate lady come 
 yet from the convent ?\ and I toald him I didn't 
 know. He said you was here, for he 'd had two let- 
 ters from the holy lady about ytfU, for she loved you 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 169 
 
 like her own heart, and wished him, if he could, to 
 see after your soul while you was here. He bid me 
 git a word of you, and till my story to you, and maybe 
 you 'd giVe me a little towards paying the fine ; for he 
 said you was as kind as an angel, and as good, too." 
 
 "Indeed, I am not," said Isabel, coloring, "but I 
 will gladly help you to get your poor boy back," and 
 she drew her purse from her pocket. " I think, how- 
 ever, you are very much mistaken in thinking it was 
 on account of your religion that you are neglected. 
 This is a free country, and all sects stand on a level 
 here." 
 
 " Yis, dear, that's what they say ; but your swate 
 heart would break to hear all the abuse we gits here 
 for our religion;" and, stimulated by the dangling 
 purse, Mrs. McCorkle poured into Isabel's ear the full 
 story of her wrongs. 
 
 Every question has two sides, and the widow forgot 
 the bright side. She did not tell that the comfortable 
 httle house was hers as long as she chose to remain in 
 it; nor that a cow had been given her; nor that 
 her wood was all sent her before the last winter set in. 
 This she forgot. 
 
 Isabel was surprised at what she heard ; but, never 
 having been imposed upon in this style, was credulous 
 enough to believe the whole story. She felt indig- 
 nant at the manner in which the poor widow had been 
 treated among strangers, and resolved to befriend Mrs. 
 McCorkle, and plead her cause with others. She 
 spoke sympathizingly to the widow, and, as she pressed 
 
170 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 her hand at parting, said, " Would not your priest aid 
 you in raising this sum, as he knows you so well, and 
 will feel none of that miserable prejudice which you 
 find among Protestants 1 " 
 
 " Och, 'dade he would, — he'd pay the whole of it for 
 me, — but himself knows better nor myself does what 
 poverty means. My counthry folk round here are 
 starving poor, and they jist lives on him, and he 
 nothing to live on himself. And och, och ! that 's not 
 the worst of it, dear ; these people hunts his riverence 
 like a tiger ; — 'dade, he could hardly git a fut o' land 
 to build his church on, that bad do they hate us all." 
 
 " Is he building a new church 1 " asked Isabel. 
 
 "Yes, dear, a darlint of a church, — all stone, no 
 mean bit of a wooden thing, like a carpenter's shop, 
 would he oflFer to the holy Mother;" and Mrs. 
 McCorkle bowed her' head reverently, and crossed 
 herself 
 
 " But where did he get his funds 1 " asked Isabel, 
 who had not forgotten the poverty of Father O'Keefe 
 and his flock. 
 
 The widow recollected herself, and replied, " 0, 
 dear heart, these holy men has ways o' their own to 
 build churches. Sometimes it comes by miracles. 
 A priest who lived convanient to me at home dthreamed 
 one night that money was buried in an ould abbey 
 eno' to half build a church, and he was bid to com- 
 mand the people to raise the rest, and to build himself 
 a house for dthreaming it, — and so they did." 
 
 Isabel smiled at Mrs. McCorkle's superstition, but 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 171 
 
 knew not the truth of her assertion, that much of the 
 money which is invested in popish churches in our 
 country is indeed raised by miracle. 
 
 Many the hard-earned dollar which should be spent 
 to brighten a miserable home, — many the dollar begged 
 for bread or fuel, — pays for the holy stones not harder 
 than the hearts of those who thus grind the faces of the 
 poor. Yes, often is the money, which tears and ap- 
 parent distress have drawn from those who gave to 
 help a needy fellow-creature, given to appease the 
 cravings of a threatening priest. "Well may the 
 benevolent look to it, and devise ways for aiding the 
 helpless strangers, which shall not expose them as prey 
 to the spoiler. 
 
 As soon as Isabel felt that it would be proper, she 
 mentioned Mrs. McCorkle's hard case to her aunt. 
 Mr. Vail was absent, but the rest of the family were 
 assembled in the parlor. Isabel commented, with 
 some warmth, upon the cruelty of those who, although 
 they knew the poor widow's son to be dutiful and hon- 
 est, refused to testify in his favor. 
 
 Mrs. Vail smiled, and asked, "How much money 
 did you give her, my love, toward the fine? " 
 
 " A half-eagle, only," she replied, "and she is in 
 a state of almost starvation." 
 
 Sam laughed outright at his cousin's credulity, assur- 
 ing her that he had seen Jim, in disguise, chopping 
 wood at his mother's door. 
 
 "That cannot be, for she assured me he was in the 
 House of Correction." 
 
172 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 " Well, we shall hear in a few days ; for, the first 
 quarrel they have, Jim will come himself to expose 
 his mother," said Mrs. Vail. " If Sam is right, Jim 
 has no doubt escaped from confinement; but his mother 
 must have had a halnd in it." 
 
 Isabel could not believe that any person could be so 
 lost to all virtue as to make up such a tale of suffer- 
 ing. Mrs. Vail called Nora into the sitting-room, 
 and said to her, " Do you know how Mrs. McCorkle 
 gets on now ? Is she in want of anything 1 " 
 
 " Dear ma'am, she is n't. The other day she tould 
 me she had four studdy places to wash in every week 
 at half a dollar, and no rint, and no wood to buy. She 
 says the Yankee ladies is bountiful good to her. 
 'Dade she 's well oiF, and it's aisy for the likes o' her 
 to scould me, as has a poor, sick sister to help, — aisy 
 for her to scould ine for only giving one dollar for the 
 new church, when herself put down tin dollars. His 
 riverence may well be plased wid her, for — " 
 
 " Well, I 'm glad she is not in want; you may go 
 now, Nora. Now, my dear child," she continued, 
 turning to Isabel, "you may see how much reliance 
 can be placed upon this woman's word. Nora has 
 lived with me three years, and I have full confidence 
 in her integrity ; — she is ignorant, but conscientious. 
 She stands in great dread of the priest, but I believe 
 she fears God more. Her word is the same to me as 
 that of my own children. You see that Mrs. 
 McCorkle has been boasting to Nora of her prosperity, 
 and blaming her for not giving to Father O'Keefe the 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 173 
 
 money for which her poor family in Ireland are anx- 
 iously looking. She knew you had been to a convent, 
 did she not?" 
 
 Isabel repeated, with much simplicity, all her visitor 
 had said of Father O'Keefe's interest in her. 
 
 " Ah ! it is as your uncle feared, my dear Isabel ; 
 they have spread a net for your feet, but God can 
 keep you from their devices", But we will talk of this 
 again. Let us have a pleasanter theme this evening." 
 
 A strange voice was just then heard in the kitchen, 
 and Nora, with upraised hands, and eyes full of yfon- 
 der, put her head in at the door, and said, " There 's 
 a man here wants a word wid you, Masther Sam, if 
 you plase." 
 
 " That is Jim, my old friend," said Sam, springing 
 to his feet ; and he was not deceived. 
 
 " Whist ! young gintleman," said Jim, as Sam, in 
 no low tone, saluted him; "whist, will ye, for the 
 ould ooman may be eve' noo at the door. I'm goin 
 to sea, Sam, — 'deed I am ; a ship sails to-morrow, and 
 I 'm goin to walk into town to-night." 
 
 " What are you going to sea for, Jim 1 " 
 
 " To be throwned, for all I know," he replied. "I'm 
 most a grown man noo, Masther Sam, and I cannot be 
 bate about the ears like an urchin any longer." 
 
 " But your mother said yesterday that you were 
 still in the House of Correction," said Sam, softly 
 opening the sitting-room door, for the benefit of the 
 rest of the family. 
 
 " Och, and have n't I been wid her, hid o'days and 
 
174 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 loose o' nights, iver since ye called afther me in the 
 woods. I run away from jail becase I saw the doors 
 all left open and a suit of men's clothes dropped in 
 my room. Sure, somebody as had the power was bid 
 to let me go. You 'd a thought she 'd hugged the 
 sowl out o' me when I first got home. But she did 
 all her lovin' Up at once, and now she calls me a 
 State's Prison bird, and -a convict, and threatens to 
 bethray me, — and how can I stand the like o' that? I 
 rather live at pace and take dacent care of her, if I 
 could ; but ye know nothing aboot it. When I sowld 
 the butter and eggs last winter, was n't it becase she 
 tuck the whole eleven dollars I earned chopping down 
 trees for the 'Squire? She would n't give the price of 
 a pair of shoes out o' it, but begged the ould shoes o' 
 them as was n't my betthers ; and where my money 
 wint I guessed, but niver knew. Sure we didn't eat 
 it, nor drink it, nor wear it. Last night she tould me 
 to go over the field till the nixt town, and stay in 
 Father O'Keefe's cellar till I sawed and splut all his 
 winter wood. ' Wud he pay me ? ' I asked. ' He 's 
 paid you already,' says she.- ' 'Deed he has not,' says I, 
 ' and I won't go a fut till I know if he '11 give me the 
 money in my hand.' Then she threatened to go for 
 a magisthrate as soon as it was light. She scoulded 
 herself into her bed, and I jist slipped into the woods 
 wid this bit o' bundle, and there I staid till now 
 without a crust to eat. Fait, then, T'd rather live 
 wid the bears than with her. But I 'm off now, and 
 she may turn into tears for all I cares for her. I come 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 175 
 
 here to-night to till you I 'm sorry I ever bodered 
 your father so much," and the poor wayward son 
 wiped his eyes with his sleeve. " I could n't go till 
 I 'd thankt yees all for your kind wotds to me ; and I 
 wanted to give you my jacknife, if you '11 take it, 
 Masther Sam." 
 
 Sam was a brave boy, and did not often shed tears ; 
 but, with all his failings, Jim had been a great 
 favorite with him. He could not stand the poor fel- 
 low's tears, and he turned his head, and wiped his eyes 
 too. " I always told the folks," said Sam, " that you 
 was better than your mother." 
 
 " 'Deed there 's no telling but I might have been as 
 good as my neighbors. But my head 's bate till it 'a 
 soft," said Jim, putting both hands on it, as if to save 
 it a fresh blow. " Och, Masther Sam, jewel, the ould 
 woman has sint to Ireland for her son (but he 's not 
 my Other's son), Barney Quigley. 0, but he 's the 
 rascallion, and whin the farmers sees him a while 
 they '11 call me a gintleman. He '11 not only eat the 
 eggs, but the bins too ; and, whin he stales a ride, it '11 
 be the horse he stales. 0, but, dear Masther Sam, 
 he 's the very broth of a villain. But whist, I was 
 jist forgittin' the half o' my errand. The ould woman 
 got five dollars from the nun wid yees for the church, 
 and she 's comin' for five more. I thought I 'd jist 
 let ye know where it wint till." 
 
 Jim thrust his jacknife into Sam's hand and was 
 running off, when the noble boy held him back. He 
 stepped out, closed the door, and placed in Jim's hand 
 
176 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 his only dollar, — a silver one lie had carried for weeks 
 in his pocket; — and Jim was off for parts unknown. 
 
 When Sam returned to the sitting-room, the ladies 
 were gazing at each other in mute astonishment. But 
 when Anna saw his face, the whole deception came 
 before her mind in such a ludicrous light that she 
 burst into a loud laugh. "Poor Papa!" she said; 
 " he has really been giving a good deal to the new 
 cathedral ! " 
 
 "My daughter," said Mrs. Vail, "all we have 
 given this woman has gone from the purest motive. 
 If she has deceived us, the guilt is hers. I trust that 
 dear Isabel is now satisfied as to her veracity. Let 
 us hear no more of this affair, unless we can do some 
 good to the poor woman's soul." 
 
 " I 'm amazed ! " exclaimed Isabel. " I know not 
 what to believe, or whom to trust. When I was a 
 child I had no doubts upon the subject of religion, 
 and thought I should adhere till death to my mother's 
 faith." 
 
 " Because it was the belief of your mother^ I fear, 
 my love, and not because it accorded with God's 
 word. Was not this the case?" interrupted Mrs. 
 Vail. 
 
 " I suppose so," replied her niece, "for I never 
 thought it possible she could err in judgment. My 
 beloved Leonore shook my confidence in my early 
 'religious belief, but planted none firmly in its place. 
 Indeed, I often used to think that, after all her cere- 
 monies, her real dependence for salvation was the 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 177 
 
 same as my mother's. I strove to be a Catholic, — 
 OBe like her, — but when she was gone, I found, to my 
 sorrow, that there was but one Leonore there. Every 
 one in the convent was anxious that I should become 
 a Catholic and a Sister of Charity ; but she seemed 
 to desire more earnestly to save me from what she 
 termed the heresy of Protestantism. She loved my 
 soul." 
 
 " May I ask, love, where you are now? " said Mrs. 
 Vail, anxiously watching the expression of Isabel's 
 face. 
 
 " All adrift," was her only answer. 
 
 "And no fear of shipwreck, my darling cousin? " 
 asked Jane. 
 
 Isabel drew from her breast what had remained 
 there unknown to the rest until now — the jewelled 
 cross of Leonore. Holding it up, she said, " I hate 
 hypocrisy, and tremble while I wear this emblem of 
 another faith ; and yet I earnestly desire to comply 
 with that dear girl's dying request that I should 
 wear it." 
 
 " "Was it her request?" asked Mrs. Vail. 
 
 " Yes ; and that I should fill her place as a teacher, 
 which is now vacant, or miserably filled," answered 
 Isabel. 
 
 " If, then, you are bound by one request, of course 
 you are by the other. Could you, with a good con- 
 science, become a nun ? " 
 
 " Not as I now feel. But I must resolve : — there 
 is a right way, — and I must find it." And Isabel 
 12 
 
178 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 repeated all the sweet and touching incidents connected 
 Vf'ith the peaceful death of her friend. 
 
 "And when was it she bound you to wear the 
 cross 1 " asked Mrs. Vail. 
 
 " She never spoke of it to me ; but to the Lady 
 Superior, who told me of it just before I left." 
 
 " My dear Isabel, I do not believe that if this sub- 
 ject had lain so near Leonore's dying heart she could 
 have kept silence when you were so much with hen 
 And, even if her own lips had uttered the request in 
 your ear, you surely would not feel bound to sacrifice 
 your immortal interests to fulfil it. Good and lovely 
 I doubt not she was ; but might she not err 1 But tell 
 me, Isabel, is the leaning that way 1 are you half in- 
 clined to become a Koman Catholic 1 " 
 
 " I should have become one when she died, could I 
 have done so; but there was a something holding me 
 back, — a conviction of the truth of my mother's in- 
 structions ; and yet I am no better for them." 
 
 "My love, the little seed sown by your mother's 
 hand and watered by her tears is still in your heart. 
 That something which you say has held you back is, 
 doubtless, the influence of her training, which will yet, 
 with God's blessing, lead you aright. But I would 
 no more urge you to adopt a belief because your 
 mother held it, than because Leonore did. Search 
 for yourself, and pray God to open your eyes to find 
 the way of life. But I trust that you and sister and 
 cottsins will not put off too late an attention to this 
 all-important matter. In the mean time I advise you, 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 179 
 
 dear Isabel, to layby the cross in your desk ; not that 
 I have any superstitious fear of it, but because I wish 
 you to be free from any restraint under which the 
 sight of it might lay you." 
 
 "Dear aunt," said the weeping girl, "I know not 
 where to look, or which way to go. I am bewildered 
 by doubt, and by the trials through which I have 
 passed the last year," 
 
 Having promised her assistance in the search after 
 truth, her aunt asked whether she felt confidence in 
 her own ability to arrive at correct conclusions. 
 
 " No, my dear aunt, I feel confidence in no one, 
 least of all in myself," replied Isabel. 
 
 " Then, my love," said Mrs. Vail, " you are just 
 in the frame of mind to seek for truth. The first step 
 must ever be to yield our own pride of opinion, and 
 go humbly to Christ, in the spirit of a little child ; for 
 he has promised to teach the meek his way." 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Thisf this is thinking free, — a thought that grasps 
 Beyond a graiHj and looks beyond an hour. 
 
 YotrsG. 
 
 The night was dark, chill and stormy. The young 
 physician, wearied with the day's duties and dejected 
 by the scenes through which he had passed, entered 
 his father's dwelling, now silent as the tomb. He 
 sought his chamber, hoping for the obliyion which had 
 been wont there to come at his bidding ; but he found 
 it not. The storm howled without, but a fiercer one 
 raged in the breast of the young man. From his 
 earliest years he had been taught that a strict morality 
 would insure him a seat in heaven. He had, therefore, 
 looked on those who cast off all hope in the deeds of 
 the law, and trust alone in the atonement of our Re- 
 deemer, as fanatics. Their earnest zeal and expres- 
 sions of joy had often been the subject of ridicule in 
 his presence ; and, if he joined not in the derision, it 
 was not that he despised them less, but because the 
 beloved of his heart was named among the despised 
 Nazarenes. Earthly love closed the lips which 
 enmity of heart would fain have opened. He was not 
 ignorant on this great subject ; for he had seen religion 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE M^NSE. 181 
 
 and irreligion in all their forma, and in their effects on 
 individuals and society. He had seen France mth- 
 out the religion of the Bible, and our own and other 
 happy lands mth it ; but still the proud heart refused 
 to yield to its judgment on the side of right. 
 
 This night he had been behind the scene ; he had 
 witnessed more of the sustaining power of grace than 
 ever before, and had returned home amazed at its 
 strength. 
 
 Who like the physician is admitted into the soul's 
 secrets in its hour of deepest anguish ? Ay, and who 
 like him could administer the balm of Gilead to the 
 wounded spirit, or apply the probe of truth to the 
 heart festering with its as yet unconscious sin ? 
 
 He gains admittance where no messenger of the 
 cross can go without intrusion : where even a mother 
 dare not speak, he may freely do so, to the sick and 
 dying ; for he reigns supreme in the sick room. 
 
 Our young physician had seen • bereavement borne 
 with stem heart by the philosopher, in dogged silence 
 by the disappointed misanthrope, and with a degree 
 of submission by many who acknowledged God's hand 
 in affliction ; but this was the first time he had ever 
 witnessed frail woman rejoicing in tribulation. Char- 
 ley was the joy of their hearts, the light of that happy 
 household ; and yet he had seen the father, mother, 
 and one loving sister, resign him cheerfully to God. 
 
 Would an earthly friend receive from us a gift 
 amid our bitter regrets at parting with our treasure % 
 Should we say. as we held out to him our gift, " Why 
 
182 THE CONVEN-T AND THE MANSE. 
 
 are we the ones to make this great sacrifice 1 — why 
 are we the only ones to.be stripped of such a cherished 
 treasure 1 — ^ why not our neighbor, who has more, or 
 who loves them less 1 " Our friend would be indig- 
 nant at the iadelicacy of our course, and scorn our 
 offering. 
 
 It is one thing to give a child to God, but quite 
 another to have it torn from us to accomplish some 
 wise design ; and yet how many who profess to be 
 laying up their treasures in heaven give thus grudg- 
 ingly their children to God ! Thus are not only their 
 own souls robbed of the blessed fruits of affliction, but 
 the Redeemer is wounded in the house of his friends. 
 
 ' ' Whence the difference 1 ' ' thought the young man, 
 as sleepless. he paced his room. "How could Jane, 
 so tenderly bound up in her little brother, and with 
 naturally far less self-control than Anna, bear so 
 calmly what seemed to rend the breast of her sister ? " 
 He thought of the- angelic sweetness of her face as 
 she kissed the faded lips and said to her father, " I 
 love him too well to wish him here again. 0, my 
 sweet Charley, I am glad you are there ! " Ay, and 
 he remembered, too, the almost indignant look of 
 Anna when she asked, " Why must our darhng be 
 torn from us, and children be spared to those who 
 care little for them, and have not the power to make 
 them comfortable 1 " 
 
 The voice of God was speaking in the young man's 
 heart, and he. was striving to turn a deaf ear to it. 
 But frail indeed is man when he attempts to strive 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 183 
 
 mth. his Maker. "There is no God, no hereafter, 
 I will not believe!" escaped the pale lips, but they 
 spoke not the word of the heart. Memory answered 
 him, ere the words died away, " The fool hath said in 
 his Jieart, There is no God." "Believe, and thou 
 shalt be saved." 
 
 The gray light of morning was shining on his un- 
 disturbed pillow. Weary with the strife within, he 
 sank into a chair, saying, " If I am ever forced to 
 believe these doctrines I hate, I will conceal it in my 
 own breast." 
 
 But "it is not in man that walketh to direct his 
 steps," and he little knew that the "hereafter" was 
 so near at hand, which should reveal the needs-be of 
 the stroke that had fallen upon the pastor's family. 
 He then made a covenant with himself that he would 
 never yield his opinion on these subjects, — that he 
 would never have the man Jesus to rule over him. 
 And he rose and went his way, trying to persuade 
 himself that the thoughts of the night were but the 
 fantasies arising from an overwearied mind and body. 
 
 A few days after Charley's funeral, the physician 
 called at Mr. Vail's,'and found the family seated to 
 the examination of some subject which seemed greatly 
 to interest them. The parents felt deeply touched at 
 the sympathy he had manifested in their sorrow. 
 They could never forget his son-like conduct at a time 
 when, of all, the heart is most alive to kindness. He 
 received a welcome, and the books were closed. To 
 this he objected, saying, " Unless you admit another' 
 
184 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 scholar into your class, sir, I must retire as an in- 
 truder." 
 
 "We will gladly admit you, my dear young friend," 
 said the minister ; "our search is for truth, and it 
 concerns you as much as us. There may, however, be 
 much said which will conflict with your sentiments. 
 Of course you will not expect us to conceal our views 
 from motives of false politeness." 
 
 "You know me too well to ask that question, sir; 
 I shall gladly. listen." 
 
 The father then said that the Bible was agreed on 
 by all the family as an infallible standard, and that 
 by it the doctrines professed by them were to be tried, 
 one by one. 
 
 " Do not all your young people believe those doc- 
 trines 1 " asked the young man. 
 
 " Isabel has doubts on some points," said Mr. Vail; 
 " Anna is a believer because she says she never 
 thought of doubting ; and Virginia considers herself 
 a firm believer in evangelical doctrines because her 
 dear mother held them. Isabel differs from the others 
 only in this, that her faith in these doctrines has been 
 shaken. Were they situated as she has been, they 
 also would doubt. A good creed, without an intelli- 
 gent conviction of its truth, affords but a poor protec- 
 tion against the assaults of error and scepticism. 
 
 " Although I believe none of our children have a 
 doubt of Christ's divine nature, I shall glance this 
 evening at some proofs of that glorious doctrine." 
 
 " Sir," said the young physician, " if you can 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 185 
 
 prove that doctrine, you will have gained over one of 
 your pupils, at least. Could I receive that, I should 
 have no other difficulties with orthodoxy." 
 
 " Ah, my dear young friend," said Mr. Vail, " there 
 is one doctrine still harder to receive, — one, more hum- 
 bling to our pride." 
 
 " Pray, what is that, sir ? " 
 
 " That which asserts the depravity of human na- 
 ture. When that is believed, the heart is prepared 
 to receive the other dogtrine. The soul awakened to 
 a sense of its moral defilement and ruin welcomes 
 Christ as a divine Redeemer. It bears witness to the 
 Scripture that He is God. The humbling doctrine 
 of depravity you do not believe;" and the pastor 
 cast a look full of love and interest upon his friend. 
 
 Richard returned no answer, but his mind reverted 
 to his chamber, where night after night the sins of 
 his youth and manhood had risen up before his view. 
 He remembered the excuses he had made for every 
 wrong step, and the almost vow he had taken never 
 again to listen to a word on religious subjects. 
 
 " Go on, sir," he said ; " I am but one listener, and 
 must not encroach too much upon your time." 
 
 Mr. Vail proceeded with his subject, and the young 
 man while listening ran his eyes around the table. 
 There was Anna, evidently striving to give respectful 
 attention to a subject in which she felt little in- 
 terest. Isabel, with an anxious expression, gave her 
 whole mind to the words of her uncle. But Jane, 
 with her sweet face, so placid and full of hope and 
 
186 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 joy ; — he was forced to love her more than ever, and, 
 as he gazed on her, the wish rose in his heart that he, 
 too, might possess the same principle of happiness 
 •with her. 
 
 At the end of an hour the books were taken away, 
 and the rest of the evening was spent in general con- 
 versation. When Richard rose to go, Mr. Vail followed 
 him to the door, saying, as he gave the parting hand, 
 "God bless you, my dear young friend!" This 
 blessing was still in the mind of Richard when he 
 entered his home. The short prayer thus breathed 
 forth from the pastor's heart had reached heaven, 
 and was destined to bring back an answer of peace. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Ida. 
 Why do you call me cousin"! 
 
 TTlbic. 
 Are we not so"? 
 
 Ida. 
 Yes, but I do not like the name ; methinl^s 
 It sounds so cold, as if you thought upon 
 Our pedigree, and only weighed our blood. 
 
 Btbon. 
 
 Three months had passed away most peacefully 
 ■with Isabel at Brookside. Her relatives were every 
 day becoming dearer to her susceptible heart, and 
 the holy principles which governed them were 
 quietly exerting their influence over her own spirit. 
 The leaves were beginning to fall, reminding her of 
 Leonore, who had faded with them in the last sad 
 autumn. Most of her wardrobe was at the convent, 
 as were also all her books ; and yet her aunt had made 
 no allusion to her return thither. Isabel resolved to 
 speak on the subject, although quite undecided as to 
 her future course. 
 
 The thought of a separation from her sister, and 
 of the loss of home enjoyments at the parsonage, was 
 
188 THE co3S[,ven;c and the manse. 
 
 painful to Ler, and at times she would resolve tare- 
 main at Brookside, where with her cousins she could 
 have better advantages than at the convent. Then 
 her proud spirit would remember the sarcastic look of 
 the Lady Superior, when she said, at parting, "I know 
 you will never return to such an evil place as this." 
 What she most dreaded there, however, was a renewal 
 of the conflict she had undergone with regard to her 
 religion. She had never been persuaded to discard 
 the Bible as the only infaUible source of truth, and 
 since she came to the parsonage she had made it 
 her daily companion, and by it tried the tenets 
 which had been ofiered her in lieu of her own. Her 
 doubts had all been dispelled, and her troubled mind 
 had found rest by simple reliance upon the declara- 
 tions of Holy Writ. 
 
 While she was in this state of mind, her uncle 
 came in one day, with an open letter in his hand, say- 
 ing, " As cold water to a thirsty soul, so is good news 
 from a far country." 
 
 "A letter from my dear father?" said Isabel, 
 springing toward Mr. Vail, while tears ran down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 " Sister," said Virginia, "you always cry, whether 
 come weal or woe; 'tis all the same: uncle said 
 '^006? news.' " 
 
 With a flushed cheek, Isabel ran over the -letter, 
 and then asked for the one it enclosed for herself. 
 
 "My dear Isabel," said her aunt, "now that you 
 know your father is well and happy, I have a request to 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE., 189 
 
 make before you read your own letter ; it is that you 
 ivill read one which your father wrote concerning you 
 some months since, and which I have not thought 
 proper to show you before." 
 
 "Anything from my beloved father, — it will be 
 new to me," said Isabel, holding out her hand for her 
 treasures. 
 
 Mrs. Vail gave her the letter from her desk, 
 which she read with changing color. She closed it 
 without speaking, and opened the last. It was filled 
 with the tenderest outgushings of a father's heart 
 toward his motherless children. He gave an account 
 of his travels since last he wrote, mentioning the 
 names of many famous places he had visited in south- 
 ern Europe; but said, " Nature has indeed done wonders 
 for this glorious region; it is like one long paradise, 
 and is full of interesting historical associations, but 
 the longer I am here the more earnestly do I pant 
 for my own dear native land. A poor simple man 
 once went from his quiet hamlet to a large city, where 
 he saw much wickedness. When asked his opinion 
 of the place, he answered, ' I thought there was no 
 God there.' Now, did I not know that the wise 
 Governor of the universe often allows his creatures 
 to act out the passions of their nature, to show what 
 is in man, I too might think there was no God in 
 Italy, France, or Spain. My heart is made sick by 
 what I see and hear of the spiritual despotism*exer- 
 cised over the people. No man, whether native or 
 foreigner, who dissents from the established faith, can 
 
190 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 worship God as his conscience directs. I have always 
 had a small opinion of their faith ; but never till I left 
 home did I see its full workings. Surely it must be 
 a false religion which needs such props as this resorts 
 to. The spirit which rebuked Peter's impetuous zeal 
 with, 'Put up thy sword into its sheath,' has no 
 dwelling here ; — it is the cross or the cell, the mass 
 or the garotte. The more I have seen of that church, 
 which must, from motives of policy, be veiled for a time 
 in America, the more have I reproached myself for 
 allowing dear Aunt Jessie to send you to the convent, 
 and the more anxious have I been that you should be 
 under the influence of your aSectionate and accom- 
 plished aunt in Brookside. All that I said concerning 
 your property, in a letter to your aunt, is cheerfully 
 withdrawn. Should you decide upon the life of 
 a nun, your property shall still be yours for your 
 own use. Withholding it would, I now see, savor too 
 much of persecution. I felt nervous and anxious 
 when ill, lest you might be induced to take the foolish 
 step. But reflection shows me that I have done ray 
 precious child injustice, and that filial duty and your 
 own good sense will guide you aright. Your mother's 
 religion, I assure you, shines brightly in contrast with 
 all others. 
 
 "As to my health, it is greatly improved. The 
 physicians say I can never be well again, but that with 
 great care and good nursing I may live for many years. 
 So you see, beloved children, I shall bring home work 
 for you both to do. Strive to improve all your advan- 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 191 
 
 tages to the utmost till my return, for it does not seem 
 to me that I could ever spare you from home again for 
 a day. Herbert has been a son to me, — has read to 
 me, cheered me, nursed me, and laid me under such 
 
 obligations as I can never repay." 
 
 " That was all you got at the post-office, was it, 
 my son 1 " 
 
 " All there was for you, sir," answered Sam, blush- 
 ing a little. 
 
 "Have you one for me?" asked Anna, who well 
 knew Sam's love of teasing when he was the bearer 
 of Cupid's missives. 
 
 " For me ? " asked Jane. 
 
 " No, for neither of you," replied the boy. " I 
 have a letter, but it is to be delivered privately, and 
 read in my presence ! " 
 
 " I know it 's not for me," said Virginia, " for Pa 
 wrote all he had to say in Isabel's letter." 
 
 " I am going now into the woods," said Sam, '-'to 
 dig roots for Jane ; she 's in a hurry to make that 
 'surrup' for old Mrs. Eose. Do you want to go 
 with me, Virginia? Kun and get your clod-hoppers; 
 it is wet in some places ! " 
 
 So off they started, Virginia carrying the basket, 
 and Sam shouldering the shovel. 
 
 " For whom was that letter, Sam ? " asked Virgi- 
 nia, imploringly. 
 
 " I 'm sure you 've had enough for one day," said 
 Sam. "Did not your letters make you as happy as 
 you wish to be?" 
 
192 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 "Indeed they did, — such good news from my 
 beloved father and dear Herbert." 
 
 Sam stopped, and looked in the young girl's face. 
 " Virginia," he said, " I don't think it 's very proper 
 for you to say ' dear Herbert,' when you speak of 
 that fellow ! " 
 
 " Fellow ! Indeed," replied Virginia, rather tartly, 
 " he 's no fellow, I can tell you ! I could not love a 
 brother better ! " 
 
 " How does he look ? " said Sam. " Is he as brown 
 as the fellow that blacks his boots ? " 
 
 " Indeed he 's not ; he 's as white as you are, and a 
 great deal handsomer ! " replied the girl, as she cast 
 on Sam a look of admiration which belied her words- 
 " What makes you so cross," she asked, " when you 
 speak of my cousin 1 You never saw him ; he has 
 never injured you." 
 
 " I have an idea he 's proud, and I would like to 
 humble his highness," said Sam. " I wish he 
 belonged to me." 
 
 " Belonged to you ! — how ridiculous ! What do 
 you mean 7 " 
 
 "It would be no more ridiculous for one man to 
 , belong to me, than for forty to belong to him.'^ 
 
 " So I think, cousin," said the young girl, thought- 
 fully. " But, now, suppose cousin Herbert did belong 
 to you, — how would you dispose of him 1 " 
 
 " I would present him and his forty subjects to the 
 Colonization Society, and request his settlement as 
 prince over them, in Africa." 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 193 
 
 " 0, Sam ! " cried Virginia, with as much distress 
 in her face as if that sentence had gone forth against 
 her cousin, " how can you be so cruel 1 " 
 
 During this conversation Virginia was seated, gath- 
 ering the leaves of checkerberry, while Sam leaned 
 against a wild cherry-tree, gazing at her. 
 
 "Now, look, Sam," she said, "I've spoiled this 
 beautiful bed of moss by picking all the httle green 
 leaves from it, and you have done nothing. Why 
 don't you cut the bark off that tree ? 'T will be tea- 
 time soon, and you will try the patience of an angel 
 if you don't get the yarbs for Jane. Don't you pity 
 her, Sam, when the doctor .calls at the house? It 
 seems too bad they can't be married, when they love 
 each other so ! " 
 
 Sam had cut the- cherry-bark into square pieces. 
 "Now," he said, giving a knife to his cousin, 
 "you can get off those pieces while I look for 
 some sarsiprella. You were speaking of Jane," 
 he added; "I had begun to think that Dick was 
 forgetting her, and looking at other bright eyes; 
 but last evening — now, don't you speak of this, for 
 my honor's sake — he asked me to hand a little box 
 to my sister. I thought it was medicine, though the 
 box was square, not like a pill-box. So I thought I 'd 
 see what kind of a mess she 'd got to cure her toothache. 
 I opened it, and, instead of unromantic pills, there, in 
 some pink cotton, lay a pretty little diamond ring. 
 ' now, Dick,' thought I, ' you 're caught, — you 've 
 sent a ring to cure the toothache, and will give the 
 13 
 
194 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 pills, with tender words, to the new lady-love ! ' I 
 looked inside to see if the suspected name was there." 
 
 " Whose name was it7 " asked Virginia, with curi- 
 osity in her eyes. 
 , ' ' Whose do you think 1 — Nelly Wilson's ? ' ' 
 
 " No, indeed; I can't imagine. Tell me, Sam." 
 
 " Well, inside the ring was engraved^ — what do you 
 think ? — ' Jane, dearer than ever J " 
 
 " Why, Sam ! now that will put her all in a fever 
 again, won't it? " 
 
 " No," said Sam, " I think not; but I should not 
 wonder if they were married, after all. I'd have a 
 heathen if I loved her ! " . 
 
 " That's because you 're not so good as she is." 
 
 "Bad as I am," said Sam, smihng, "you'll all 
 miss me when I 'm^one to college." 
 
 " But you'll come home every month, won't you, 
 cousin ? No one will miss you as I shall. No more 
 pleasant rambles for me this fall; no coasting, , nor 
 learning to skate, next winter. I believe sister thinks 
 it 's unlady-like to take such kind of exercise. She 
 told me the other day to remember that I was sixteen 
 years old ! " 
 
 " I shall be seventeen next week," exclaimed Sam. 
 "In four years I shall be a man! 'Roll swiftly 
 round ye wheels of time ! ' " 
 
 , ' ' That 's a hymn, Sam ; and beside, time flies swiftly 
 enough here, I 'm sure. What a sweet short year this 
 has .been ! But, what are you so anxious to be a man 
 for?" 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 195 
 
 " I want to be doing something." 
 ■ "I'm sure you are doing something everyday; 
 besides studying so much." 
 
 " Yes, sawing wood, and taking care of the horse, 
 and going errands ! Jim McCorkle has more genius 
 for such work than I have. I want to do something 
 that he and such as he can't do. In four years I shall 
 graduate, and then, Virginia, perhaps I shall know as 
 much, and be as much of a gentleman, as 'dear 
 Herbert!'" 
 
 "Who said you were not so, now 7 " asked his 
 cousin. 
 
 " How could you expect me to be 1 " asked Sam, 
 impatiently. " I 've never been out of this village to 
 spend a month, and he constantly travelling, or asso- 
 ciating with refined people at home. But I don't 
 believe his mother and sisters are more lady-like than 
 mine are ! " 
 
 "0 fie, Sam ! you proud boy ! If you '11 promise to 
 pardon him for his superior advantages, I '11 reward you 
 with a compliment. Herbert, with all his wealth and 
 intercourse with the world, does not appear any better 
 than you do. And yet he is a year and a half older 
 than you are." 
 
 Sam evidently felt flattered, but was too proud to 
 thank his cousin for the compliment. "Let's see," 
 he said, " sarsaparilla, checkerberry, cherry-bark, — 
 was that all, Virginia 1 " 
 
 " Yes, three things, — she has the other 'grudgins,' 
 as old Sambo used to say, in the house. What a 
 
196 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 capital doctor's wife she would make, — always sim- 
 mering something for sick people ! " 
 
 " If she and Dick were in partnership, they could 
 set up two kinds of practice, allopa,thic and yarbo- 
 pathic. Come, give me the basket ; it is heavier than 
 when we started." 
 
 " You cannot carry all, Sam, — basket, hatchet, and 
 spade. I'll carry the hatchet. But, what would 
 Isabel say if she should see mel" exclaimed Vir- 
 ginia. 
 
 Sam helped Virginia over the stone- wall of the pas- 
 ture, and said, " You have forgotten that letter you 
 was so curious about." He then drew it from his 
 pocket, and said, "Now, if you'll promise never to 
 say ' dear Herbert ' again, I '11 show it to you." 
 
 " I '11 try to remember," said Virginia ; and taking 
 the letter, she read her own name on it. " Why, it is 
 from Herbert, and came in the same mail with father's ! " 
 
 She opened it, and read aloud a few lines expressive 
 of affection, and of anxiety to see her. It enclosed a 
 heavy one to Isabel, which he said contained a long 
 account of their tour since he wrote last. He 
 expressed great pleasure at the good news he heard 
 of Virginia's happiness with her relations, and con- 
 cluded by saying that he should surely visit Sam on 
 his return ; for, from all he had heard, he would be 
 just the friend for him. 
 
 Sam looked somewhat mortified at this manly allu- 
 sion to himself, and his noble spirit forced him to say. 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 197 
 
 " Well, after all, he is no doubt a fine fellow, and 
 I '11 give him a hearty -welcome when he arrives." 
 
 The question of Isabel's remaining at Brookside or 
 returning to the convent, was the subject of consul- 
 tation at the parsonage. She decided to remain. Mr. 
 Vail, therefore, resolved to accompany her to the 
 convent, and explain to the Lady Superior her reasons 
 for this course, and also settle honorably all her little 
 affairs there. They were received politely, but with 
 less cordiahty than Isabel had expected. She chose 
 to leave with the Superior a small amount which she 
 had placed in her hands, and all pecuniary matters 
 were arranged to the lady's satisfaction. She, how- 
 ever, requested Isabel: to return the jewelled cross of 
 Leonore, saying that it would, of course, be valueless 
 to her. "Far from it," said Isabel; "I shall con- 
 sider it one of my dearest treasures, and place it 
 among the keepsakes my mother left me." But the 
 reverend mother was inexorable ; and Isabel drew the 
 cross from her bosom, asking, " Did she not bequeath 
 it to me with her dying lips 7" 
 
 " Yes, if you fulfilled her dying- words," said the 
 lady, tartly ; and Isabel gave it into her hands, to the 
 great satisfaction of Mr. Vail, who had feared the in- 
 fluence this little memento of her lovely friend might 
 still have over her mind. 
 
 Isabel then requested that she might have an inter- 
 view with Mary Gray, which was granted. The two 
 friends talked together a few moments only, in the 
 presence of Mr. Vail and the Lady Superior, when 
 
198 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 Mary was summoned away to her lessons. She 
 clasped Isabel in her arms, and, kissing her fervently, 
 ■whispered, " My father was defeated in that election, 
 and I 'm going home to my dear mother at the end of 
 the term." 
 
 Mr. Vail and Isabel visited many places of interest 
 in and around the city. While her uncle was busy one 
 morning, Isabel went out alone to make some pur- 
 chases. One of these was a watch for Sam, which 
 Virginia had entreated her to get, as he was soon to go 
 from home, and had refused to take his mother's with 
 him. 
 
 -After a few weeks' absence they were joyfully 
 received at the parsonage by all who had patience to 
 wait for them there. Sam and Virginia met them at 
 the depot with the carriage, and scarcely could the 
 little maiden restrain her expressions of delight before 
 strangers. She had had a lingering fear that the nuns 
 might, after all, persuade her sister to remain at the 
 convent. But her dear Isabel had returned, and her 
 heart was full of joy for the present and hope for the 
 future. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " TVhat care I though a highborn fool 
 
 Scoff at me whilo I toil 1 ' 
 
 Why rack my brain 'mong musty briefa 
 
 A brother's hopes to foil "? 
 No; with an honest heart I '11 choose 
 
 The path that Adam trod, 
 And, with a noble purpose, till 
 
 The soil, and work for God." 
 
 "0, Sam, you darling boy!" said Jane, as she 
 walked in the garden, leaning on his arm. ' ' What shall 
 we all do when you are gone ? I have half a dozen 
 errands for you now, and do you know that poor Uncle 
 Fosdick is very sick?" 
 
 " Blessed old man ! " said the boy. "As I go out 
 into the world to begin life, he seems to be just finish- 
 ing his humble course. I would be almost willing, 
 sister dear, to give up all my ambitious plans, and lie 
 down upon his lowly bed, to be as sure of heaven as 
 he is. I've- often made light of holy things, Jane," 
 said the boy, " and have had the impiety to think that 
 the goodness of those around me would shield me from 
 the anger of Heaven, but I feel to-night almost afraid 
 to go out into temptation with none to guide or watch 
 over me." 
 
200 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 '"My Father, be Thou the guide of his youth,' " 
 exclaimed the loving sister, as she raised her tearful 
 eyes. She kissed her brother tenderly, and said, 
 " You must take my seal ; — on it is an owl, with the 
 one word, ' Watch.' When you look at it, brother, 
 say to yourself, ' Watch and pray, lest ye enter into 
 temptation.' God's hand is a strong hand, Sam, and 
 He will keep those who trust in Him." 
 
 " But I don't trust in Him, — I don't even pray to 
 Him ; for when I repeat a prayer I feel no nearer to 
 God. The truth is, Jane, I do not love God, nor His 
 people, unless such of them as love me." 
 
 "That's a sad confession, Sam. But 'the Eye 
 that slumbereth not nor sleepeth,' will be watchful 
 over you. You are the child of many prayers. Re- 
 member, brother, when you are away, that your sweet 
 mother will pray for you with every breath." 
 
 " And my sweet sister, too," said Sam. "But there 
 come Virginia and Isabel." 
 
 " What shall we all do for company when you 're 
 gone?" said Jane. "You'll be lonely, won't you, 
 Virginia dear, without him 1 But I shall try to fill 
 his place. I will walk with you, talk and read with 
 you, and try to be as young as Sam; — as interesting 
 I can never be." 
 
 " I was just thinking," said the princely boy, as he 
 gazed upon them, " that it was as much as a boy like 
 me eould do to walk between two such girls without 
 feeling proud. There is no need of compliments f 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 201 
 
 I can't stand much to-day!" — and a tear stood in his 
 eye. 
 
 "Sam," said Virginia, "your mother wishes you 
 to cut the dahlias all oiF, and bring them to her." 
 
 " The truth is," replied the boy, " my heart begins 
 to fail me when I find I am really going away. But 
 I 've been a boy long enough ; I must try to be a man 
 hereafter." 
 
 The cousins all walked towards a rude summer- 
 house, where they seated themselves. 
 
 "This is my own work, Virginia," said Sam, looking 
 overhead. "Don't you think I would make a good 
 carpenter?" 
 
 " Any sensible man, with strong arms, can make a 
 carpenter," she replied; "but you'll be more than 
 that, Sam. What do you mean to be when you are 
 a man, — a minister, or lawyer, or doctor?" 
 
 " I always, till lately," replied Sam, "had a high 
 ambition for the legal profession. But I have attend- 
 ed two or three justice's courts, as they call them, 
 and have seen what are the first steps of that ladder to 
 fame. I could not be a lawyer's apprentice, and run 
 around serving accounts on the poor, who would curse 
 me as soon as my back was turned. I have given 
 that up. A doctor I never meant to be, — I havn't 
 the nerve for that ; nor a minister neither, — I hav n't 
 patience enough for that office, if I had the grace." 
 i " You '11 have to be a country gentleman, like my 
 father," said the young girl; " 'tis a charming lifg, 
 Sam, even at the south, and here it must be lovely. 
 
202 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 — a paradise. You know y^u ijeed n't carry your 
 milk or vegetables to market yourself. You could 
 raise fruit and flowers, and ride, and walk, and read, 
 just as you pleased. One man could cultivate your 
 land, attend to your cattle, go to market, and over- 
 see all your affairs." 
 
 "I guess he could," said the boy, laughing at his 
 cousin's earnestness ; " for I 'd liave no land, nor 
 cattle, nor crops, to take care of. And if I had, Vir- 
 gie, I would have no man to oversee my business. 
 I would not only do that myself, but I would work, 
 and that with a good will and strong arm. I never 
 yet was ashamed to do anything honest. I only felt 
 as if it was a shame for me to waste my time doing 
 work which Jim could do as well as I, and for which 
 such as he should be paid." 
 
 " Why, Sam, I always thought you were so proud 
 that you did not like to work," said Virginia. 
 
 " Then you were very much mistaken, my little 
 cousin. Summer before last, when Mr. Brooks was 
 planting his nursery, I worked a good many days for 
 him, and earned quite a sum of money, besides keep- 
 ing up with Jane in my studies. But it will be some 
 time before I have a farm of my own. I shall have 
 to earn money first." 
 
 " My father has plenty," said Virginia, with great 
 simplicity; "he'll buy you a farm, I'm sure, he 
 thinks so much of uncle, and of all of you." 
 
 "Not of me," replied the boy. 
 
 "0, I almost forgot," interruptg^W^irginia, 
 
THE CONVENT .AND XHE MANSE. 203 
 
 have a beautiful j|^ent for you, Sam. Will you 
 accept it?" 
 
 " Yes," said Sam, opening his penknife, and seizing 
 a golden ringlet which hung upon her shoulder ; ' ' shall 
 I take it?" 
 
 "It is not that," said Virginia, laughing; "you 
 surely would not disfigure me so." 
 
 " Well, let me see the present, — 'tis not the farm, 
 paradise, already, is it 7 " 
 
 "No, Sam," said the young girl, "not such a 
 valuable gift as that; but here it is," and she held 
 out a little box to her cousin. 
 
 When Sam saw the contents, his countenance 
 betrayed several different emotions, " Was it really 
 bought for me, Isabel?" he asked, turning to her. 
 
 " Yes, Sam, you needed one to help you use time 
 aright, and you were a noble boy not to take your 
 mother's, when she offered it to you," replied his 
 cousin. 
 
 " I should very much like such a watch," said the 
 boy, " but I do not think I ought to take this. Next 
 year my father will get me one." 
 
 " Not take it, after Isabel has purchased it ? In- 
 deed you will, sir," said Virginia, laughing, while she 
 threw the chain around his neck. 
 
 "Now," she said, "let us cut the dahlias;" and 
 
 she drew forth her scissors. " Sam, your inother 
 
 -. says that if you cut them, it will make her happy to 
 
 look at them even after they are withered. How she 
 
 loves youl'l .wish I had a mother, Sam." 
 
204 THE CONVENT AN-D THE MANSE. 
 
 She looked up, but the boyii^as apparently un- 
 conscious that she ■was speaking. 
 
 " What ails you, Sam, — are you dreaming ? " asked 
 Anna. 
 
 "Yes," replied the boy, " of realities, stern reali- 
 ties. The fact is, I don't like the idea of being poor; 
 I don't like to be pitied and patronized." 
 
 " 0, you wicked, proud boy !- Who thought you 
 were poor?" asked Virginia. 
 
 " We are the poor ones," said Isabel, " all alone 
 in the world. If I had such a home as this, Sam, I 
 should feel very rich." 
 
 " Sister got the watch, cousin, to make you happy," 
 said Virginia; " but instead of that it has made you 
 miserable. You won't let people love you, or be kind 
 to you, Sam; that's not noble pride. You are too 
 selfish to receive a kindness. 'T was noble in you to 
 refuse your mother's, but not so to refuse this." 
 
 " I thank you, cousin, for the watch, and for your 
 lecture, too ; and I promise to think of you all every 
 time the watch ticks." 
 
 " I am afraid, then, you '11 not study much. But 
 do let us get the dahlias, Sam," said Virginia. " I 
 hope you will look happy when you go into the house 
 to your mother." 
 
 " I feel so now," said the boy ; " but at first I felt 
 angry' that I could not be the giver rather than the 
 receiver of all the favors showered upon me of late." 
 
CHAPTER XVin. 
 
 Come not between the dragon ani his wrath. 
 
 Shaesfsabe. 
 
 One Sabbath morning, not long after Jim's de- 
 parture, Honora returned from mass, bathed in tears, 
 for which she seemed unwilling to account. AH that 
 Mrs. Vail's kindness could draw from her was, 
 "Musha, and it's that ould Kerry .cabooch that's 
 makin' Father O'Keefe so hard wid me. Oeh, 
 honey! but the heart of me 's broken intirely ! 0, 
 but she 's the miserable ould far-downer, is Mrs. 
 McCorkle!" • 
 
 Mrs. Vail was well convinced that the old woman 
 was at the root of Honora' s trouble ; so, in the morn- 
 ing, accompanied by Isabel, she went to the httle 
 house on the roadside. The ladies were welcomed 
 with apparent joy ; for, although in her heart Mrs. 
 McCorkle hated every one of a different faith, s6e well 
 knew that the ladies of the parsonage never called at 
 the houses of the poor without their purses. This 
 time, however, her joy was wasted, for Mrs. Vail 
 had come upon another errand. 
 
 " Mrs. McCorkle, you know,"- she said, "that I 
 
206 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 am deeply interested in all the poor strangers who 
 come among us, and that if any of them are in trouble 
 I am willing to do anything in my power to make 
 them comfortable." 
 
 " 0, but I 'm the one as knows that to the core o' 
 my heart, swate lady," replied the widow, wiping her 
 eyes. " You 've been like an angel to me." 
 
 " Well, I want you, then, to tell me, if you can, 
 what is troubling my good Nora. She has done 
 nothing but weep, and sigh for — " 
 
 "Honora, the darlint ! Maybe she's throiibled 
 about her people at home, — afraid the starvation 's 
 come upon them." 
 
 " My friend," said Mrs. Vail, calmly, and fixing her 
 eyes on Mrs. McCorkle, " I am aware that you know 
 the cause of Nora's trouble, and therefore I hope you 
 will not deceive me, but inform me at once what it 
 is." 
 
 The decided manner in which the lady spoke, at 
 first quite unmanned Mrs. McCorkle, and she began 
 to weep. But her tears had lost all their eifect on 
 Mrs. Vail, and she pressed an answer to her question. 
 Then the tears of deceit were turned to those of anger, 
 and all her admiration for Mrs. Vail, and all her 
 gratitude for her kindness, were as if they had never 
 been. She lost all control over herself; and her 
 tongue, being effectually loosed, ran with astonishing 
 speed, telling all which she constantly declared she 
 would never reveal. "An' suppose I did tell his 
 riverence that she was gittin' to be a red Protestant? 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 207 
 
 She desarves to be tould on — the ould turncoat, — 
 she desarves to lose her place, an' be turned out on 
 the -world. " 
 
 " She will not be turned on the world, sick or well, 
 while /have a home." 
 
 '"Dade she will, then, — the ould bundle! His 
 riverence promised ,me yesterday that he 'd bid her 
 lave you when her week would be up." 
 
 "Why do you and he wish her to leave me?" 
 asked the lady, with a gentleness which contrasted 
 strangely with the fury of Mrs. McCorkle. 
 
 " Becase, did n't she know when my darlin' boy 
 was inticed away, and niver tould his riverence till 
 he 'd look afther him, and forbid him to stir a fut, 
 but stay and work for his poor ould heart-broken 
 mother 1 The mother's heart is broke in me, all for 
 her, the wi-etch !" 
 
 " Who enticed Jim away 1 " asked Mrs. Vail. 
 
 " Maybe," replied the woman, smiling and curtsey- 
 ing in her anger, " maybe it would be ill manners in 
 me to tell my betthers that her own young gintleman 
 did it, and that, afther I had worked my nails off to 
 pay his fine, when I ought to have tuk the law of 
 those rascallions for false imprisonment ! " 
 
 " My son never spoke with him," said Mrs. Vail, 
 ■' after he was taken to jail, till one dark night he 
 came over to tell Sam he was going to sea, and to bid 
 him good-by. And as to the fine, Mrs. McCorkle, you 
 know that you did not pay it ; but that through 
 friends, who should have known better, Jim was 
 
208 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 allowed to escape from confinement. You know that 
 the money you received from Miss Mclver, you gave 
 to the priest, for the new church. Your whole course, 
 my poor woman, is well known to us, and has caused 
 us great sorrow on your account. You, and the per- 
 son through whom you did this, could be severely 
 punished by our laws ; but it is far from our hearts to 
 injure you. I hope God will forgive you both, and I 
 assure you that we shall do so. I suppose, then, that 
 poor Nora's trouble arose from the dread of leaving 
 her home. But she need not do so; she shall not be 
 forced away." 
 
 " 'Dade, thin, she will," sharply retorted Mrs. 
 McCorkle ; " for this is not the first time she 's had 
 hard words wid his riverence. Pretty work for the child 
 of Catholic parents to be hearin' heretics pray, and read 
 the Bible, night and morning ! Fine, indade ! He '11 
 make her fast the very life out of her if she stays wid 
 ye! There's another," said she, pointing to Isabel; 
 "making two souls ye 've ruined already, drawin' 
 them away from the holy mother church! " 
 
 The poor girl was pale with terror, and gladly did 
 she accompany her aunt into the street, after she had 
 said, "Good-morning," — a farewell which the gentle 
 widow returned from the door, in loud tones of threat- 
 ening, as they walked away. " I '11 tell his riverence 
 how ye came here to break a poor widdy's heart in 
 her own bit o' house. I '11 tell him, and he '11 be 
 revinged on ye!" 
 
 But her threats fell powerless on the lady's ear. 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 209 
 
 She had not been reared where priests have all power 
 on eai-th; nor did she believe. that his "riverence" 
 would be suffered to harm her or her family. 
 
 As Mrs. McCorkle saw them slowly departing 
 without giving her one abusive word in reply, she 
 seemed resolved to make them partners of her sin, if 
 possible. She called after them to stop a moment, as 
 she " wanted a word " with them. Mrs. Vail turned, 
 and was retracing her steps, when Mrs. McCorkle 
 asked, " Do ye know what a widdy's curse is ? Niver 
 a one but come upon them she prayed it on ; — and 
 now, take mine, the curse of a widdy and a sthranger ! " 
 and then she looked like triumph itself 
 
 Mrs. Vail said, in a soft voice, "Mrs. McCorkle, 
 my religion teaches me to bless, and curse not ; there- 
 fore, I wish you every good thing in this life, and I hope 
 that God will pardon your sins, and receive you to 
 heaven." 
 
 Mrs. McCorkle was not prepared for this. At first 
 she faltered; but her temper again conquered her 
 sense of shame, and she said, "Good-by, ladies! 
 Iverybody 's a lady in this miserable ould counthry, — 
 milliners and tailor-gerls, and ivery body. 0, if you 
 could but see an Irish lady once, ye would n't know 
 what kind of a thing yees were looking at ! Ladies, 
 indeed ! Hoot ! " screeched the widow, after they 
 were almost out of sight, " away wid your gin- 
 tility! Ye took a false oath, ye young heretic! Ye 
 swoi-e to stay, and give all your fortune to the holy 
 Sistlipvs. and thin ye ran away like a thief! His 
 14 
 
210 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 riverence knows all aboot ye, and — " But the ladies 
 •were beyond hearing distance, and the winds alone 
 were edified by the remainder of Mrs. McCorkle's 
 speech. 
 
 " Do you now think as you first did, my love, that 
 a desire for your soul's good was the only motive 
 which induced the nuns to desire your connection with 
 them 1 " asked Mrs. Vail. 
 
 " I see it all now," Isabel replied. " But I hope," 
 she added, with tears, "you do not believe what that 
 dreadfal woman just said, that I had taken an oath to 
 remain, and give my property to the convent." 
 
 " Indeed I do not, my love. But I have no doubt 
 the priest told her so, that she might think she was 
 doing God service to get your money, or to try to 
 interest you in behalf of the Catholic religion. These 
 works of deceit are not the peaceable fruits of the 
 Spirit. ' Try the spirits whether they be of God.' The 
 Scriptures say, ' K any man have not the Spirit of 
 Christ, he is none of His.' His Spirit teaches love to 
 all, even to our enemies. Popery teaches revenge, — 
 to hate, to curse, to revile all who are not its 
 disciples, — especially such as have left its darkness for 
 the light of the glorious gospel of the Son of God." 
 
 On her return to the house, Mrs. Vail did not begin 
 to revile the Catholic religion, nor to ridicule the rage 
 and bigotry of the wretched woman who so much 
 deserved her pity. Her weapons were spiritual; and, 
 having commended the faithful Nora to Him who 
 pitieth the ignorant, she waited a favorable opportunity 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 211 
 
 to converse with her. Such an opportunity soon 
 occurred; and Mrs. Vail spoke tenderly to the poor 
 stranger, expressing sympathy in her trouble. ' ' Nora, ' ' 
 she said, "I have ascertained the cause of your sor- 
 row. You need not leave us, to please either your 
 priest or Mrs. McCorHe. You know who are your 
 best friends, and who have done most to make you 
 happy since you came here. You see that those to 
 whom you would most naturally look for help and 
 comfort, care only to draw your hard-earned wages 
 from you. Now, tell me, Nora, if you still believe 
 that all Protestants will lose their souls." 
 
 " 'Deed, I do not, madam," replied the weeping 
 girl. "Only for I believed God hears ye when ye 
 pray, I wouldn't put up wid all I have to, to go to 
 your prayers this last while. God knows they make 
 me sthronger to bear my throubles about my poor 
 starving people at home, and my sick sisther here. 
 And so I tould his riverence. But, my heart! he 
 said I 'd lose my soul for that. I, that used to be so 
 modest, ma'am, had the bouldness to speak back to 
 his riverence. Bays I to him, ' What I heard in that 
 house makes me love God more, and thry more to be 
 faithful to my work. How can that send me to 
 helir" 
 
 " And what did he say to that ? " asked Mrs. Vail. 
 
 " 'Deed, madam, I angered him so I could hardly 
 tell what he said, only that I 'd be to leave you in a 
 week." 
 
212 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 " And are you going to leave me, Nora ?" inquired 
 Mrs. Vail. 
 
 "Och, dear heart! what '11 I do? Next Sunday 
 he's going to read the names of all as won't give 
 money for the new church, and ain't thrue to their 
 religion. ! but he 's the cruel man to the poor ! 
 God forgive him ! " 
 
 " And yet you will confess all your sins to him, 
 and throw away your conscience, and, I fear, risk 
 your soul to please him ?" 
 
 " Misthress Vail, I'd give the world to be born 
 over again, o' Protestant parents; but, if I should 
 leave the Catholic church now, there wouldn't be a 
 whole bone in my body next week." 
 
 "Nora," replied the lady, " I have never asked 
 you to leave your own church. I ask you to read — 
 carefully to read — the Bible, your own Bible, as you 
 call it, without the notes, which are but man's teach- 
 ings. Compare the different religions which are in 
 the land, and see which system bears the best fruit, 
 — who are most like Christ. Go to your own room, 
 my good girl, and, without prayer-book or rOsary, lay 
 your case, just as it is, before the pitying Redeemer. 
 Ask him to show you the right way, and promise, 
 with His help, to walk in it. You will be safe, also, as 
 long as you choose to remain here. God can take 
 care of you against all your foes. But, my dear girl, 
 if you pray with a determination all the while to do 
 as you think best yourself, or with doubts of God's 
 ability to keep you. He will be dishonored and grieved, 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 213 
 
 and may leave you to your own way. This is all I 
 have to say. I trust that God will guide you aright. 
 And be careful not to cherish anger in your heart 
 against Mrs. McCorkle, or any fellow-creature, else 
 God will not hear your prayer." 
 
 Honora had long been wavering, and the dews of 
 grace had been distilhng into her heart. She was no 
 bigot, but truly sincere before God, and anxious to 
 know more of a faith which wrought the lovely fruits 
 she saw in the family of Mr. Vail. The harsh and 
 selfish manner in which Father O'Keefe treated all 
 the poor of his flock, contrasted strangely with the 
 tender sympathy which the village pastor manifested 
 toward all the poor, whether of his own fold or of the 
 priest's. She was all but persuaded to cast away all 
 intercessors but the " one Mediator between God and 
 men;" but the fear of the priest, and of her own 
 country people, bound her like a spell. 
 
 Little do those who blame the indecision of the con- 
 vinced papist know the trials to which he is subjected. 
 Not only a Christian's love, but also a martyr's faith 
 is needed in taking a stand against all his people. 
 Friends are lost, and enemies, often revengeful ones, 
 are gained. Great need, then, have these poor blinded 
 strangers, of our prayers, our sympathies, and our 
 instructions. Ridicule and harsh language never 
 brought a soul from darkness to light ; but gentleness, 
 patience, kindness, and a manifest love for their souls, 
 have, vnth God's blessing, won many to Him who is 
 in this respect our bright Example, as well as Saviour. 
 
214 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 Happy those who come under the influence of truly 
 Christian employers. 
 
 Poor Honora had carried an anxious face for many 
 days, when one morning she came in, with streaming 
 eyes, exclaiming, " Och, I've gained a great loss, 
 ma 'am ! I heard that Mrs. McOorkle broke all the 
 glass out of the bit house on the road-side, and then 
 moved off, nobody knows where. She quarrelled with 
 Mr. Jones' servant-man, Tim Quirk, and he threat- 
 ened to tell how she got Jim out. Tim saw her 
 coming over the field from the priest's house, in the 
 moonhght, and this morning she 's gone wid all she, 
 had. 0, but my heart 's ten stone lighter for gittin' 
 her off of it ! And I told Tim I 'd niver wear my shoes 
 thravelling to Father O'Keefe's again; that I got a 
 better Father nor him, in heaven, to confess to. 0, 
 but I was more afraid of her nor of death itself, ma 'am ! 
 I can keep clear o' the rest of 'em, and wid God's 
 help I will, too ! " 
 
 Poor and humble though she was, Honora was not 
 given up till after a severe struggle to subdue her. 
 She was called for to go to mass on Sabbath morning. 
 She was coaxed, scolded, threatened ; but all in vain. 
 Then her honor and generosity (traits on which the 
 humblest Irish pride themselves) were called in ques- 
 tion. A modest-looking little woman, with whom 
 Nora had been on the best of terms, called on her 
 one day. After a little conversation, she said that she 
 had come to invite her to stand as godmother for her 
 baby. Nora tried to excuse herself; but the little 
 
THE COirVENT AND THE MANSE. 215 
 
 •woman urged her, saying, " Don't refuse now, Nora 
 dear, if it 's only to save your money ; for John mil 
 put two dollars in your hands before we leave the 
 house." 
 
 Nora denied having given a thought to the money ; 
 but in a moment she said, " And sure if I did think 
 of it, wouldn't it be right for me to send all my wages 
 to my ould father and mother at home, and to my 
 poor sisther at the hospital ? " 
 
 " The Irish folks will all say it's the money that 
 makes you afeard to go wid us ; and I don't like to 
 hear ye abused, Nora dear." 
 
 " Well, then, let them say so ! " replied the girl. 
 " It 's duty to make better use of my money than to 
 give it to him that 's richer now nor he needs to be ! " 
 
 The little woman's errand was done, and she de- 
 parted. 
 
 In a week or two, while the family were all out but 
 Isabel and Nora, two Irishmen, who were round col- 
 lecting funds for the new church, called on Nora. 
 She wisely ushered them into the sitting-room where 
 Isabel was. They stated their errand from Father 
 O'Keefe, when Nora boldly told them, " I don't belong 
 to your church now, and tell Father O'Keefe so ! " 
 They hinted that the names of all unfaithful Cathohcs 
 were to be read out in church on the nezt Sabbath. 
 
 " Well, thin, I pities the poor bodies as has to sit 
 there and hear themselves called out. But I '11 niver 
 know if he calls me out, for I '11 not be there, and 
 I '11 niver ask about it." 
 
216 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 The men rose to go,— r one: of them saying, in a low 
 tone, " You '11 raise your griandmother'a bones out, of 
 the grave, bad luck to ye!" Nora bid them " good- 
 by," saying, in a cheerful tone, "If ye's iver wants 
 a friend, ye '11 find one -where Nora Dolan is. God 
 forgive your sins ! " 
 
 Shortly after this, Nora asked Mrs. Vail if she 
 thought it would be right for her to remain as she was, 
 a member of the Catholic church; as by so doing she 
 would escape much of the abuse which she expected 
 to receive, should she send word to Father O'Keefe 
 that she wished to join Mr. Tail's church. 
 
 " Nora, my good girl, you must be sincere. No 
 • one has urged you to leave your church. You have 
 done it in the fear of God ; and Christ says, ' He that 
 loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy 
 of me.' We must be willing to leave father, mother, 
 daughter, son, houses, lands, and give up even life 
 itself, or we are not fit to dwell with Him. You will 
 find in the New Testament, this passage, ' Blessed are 
 ye when men persecute you, and revile you, and say 
 all manner of evil against you, falsely, for my sake. 
 Rejoice and be exceeding glad, for great is your reward 
 in heaven.' But remember,, these charges must be 
 false, and all must be sufiered for Christ's sake. If 
 you outwardly remain a member of the Catholic 
 church, you will be deceiving others; and distrusting 
 God's power to protect you. If you have really de- 
 cided to leave that churchj go opeply to Mr. O'Keefe, 
 and tell him so, and give him youv reasons JQroia the 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 217 
 
 Bible. You have nothing to fear ; for ' even the very 
 hairs of your head are all numbered.' " 
 
 '"Deed, thin, you're jist right, ma'am, and my 
 own heart knows it ; but all the time something keeps 
 ■whispering to my heart to hide my religion for fear 
 I gits killed." 
 
 " That is a temptation from the enemy of your 
 soul," said Mrs. Vail; " and when you take a decided 
 stand he will give you up for lost, and cease to trouble 
 you on that point. If you resist him he will flee from 
 you." 
 
 "Well, thin, I '11 go soon to the priest, and talk to 
 him." 
 
 Honora's chain was broken. She was reviled and 
 abused by those who, although galled by the same 
 fetters as she had worn, lacked courage to follow her 
 example. But, screened in a happy home, she was 
 safe from their malice. She could well afford to be 
 called "hiritie," or, as she passed the houses of former 
 friends, to be hooted at as a "turncoat," an "Irish 
 Yankee," and the like. The Bible was almost her 
 only book when she rested from her work ; and the 
 Sabbath-school, and God's house, were her places of 
 weekly resort. 
 
 A rich reward is the salvation of one humble soul^ 
 for those who love Christ and His service. " He that 
 converteth a sinner from the error of his way, shall 
 save a soiil from death, and shall hide a multitude of 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Man; daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all. 
 
 SoLOMoir. 
 
 "There goes the young doctor and his ■wife," 
 exclaimed Mrs. Rose to her visitor, as she gazed out 
 of her window. " I always think of the ministerin' 
 sperrits when I see her or Mrs. Vail." 
 
 "Well, they have been ministerin' angels to 
 scores of folks that's in heaven now," replied Mrs. 
 Fosdick, as she took the glasses from off her placid 
 face preparatory to a conversation for which the an- 
 nouncement of Mrs. Rose had opened the way. 
 " There never was such a gal as Jane Vail in 
 Brookside before. She 's the flower o' the beauti- 
 ful flock, so I think ; but he always said Sam was his 
 favorite. If he ainH so good, there is a dreadful 
 winnin' way about him. He does love to hear him 
 talk. And then, I don't wonder he loves the boy; for 
 last summer, when Jim Hawkins cut his foot with the 
 sy'e a-mowing, and the hay was a-sufferin' to be cut, 
 and he was most out of his wits about his work, one 
 morning over comes Sam, at sun-rise, in his shirt 
 sleeves, and says he, ' Don't you want to teach me 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 219 
 
 to cut hay, Mr. Fosdick? I'm tired o' studying, 
 and I want some exercise.' He did n't come as if he 
 was doin' him a great favor, but so polite like. 
 When he sot down to dinner he eat fat pork, and 
 everything that farmers has in harvest-time. Why, 
 he worked two days, fourteen hours, and they saved 
 the hay without any more help. He wanted dread- 
 fully to pay him well ; but Sam laughed, and said, 
 ' I 've eat up all my wages, I guess ; and if I hav n't, 
 I '11 wait till you make your will for the rest.' I 
 guess he won 't forgit him, ■ — he '11 git his pay 'fore 
 long." 
 
 "I knowed," replied Mrs. Rose, "that all would 
 come round right with Jane. Why, Miss Fosdick, such 
 gals must git a blessin' ! Why, when I was sick so 
 long with that rheumatis fever, she used to sit here hull 
 nights alone, and was n't sixteen years old. I'm sure 
 't would take a week to tell all the things she 's made 
 for me, and the books she 's brought, and the work 
 she 's done here. She don't go round on her tip-toes, 
 nor act as if she was afraid of her white fingers, in 
 poor folks' houses ! I never tho't I 'd go to another 
 weddin' ; but I'm glad I went, for it 's made me feel 
 younger and better a' ready ! " 
 
 " I told him" replied Mrs. Fosdick, "that I was 
 beat to see you there ; but he said he reckoned how 
 they sot out to have all the halt and the maimed and 
 the blind there ainong the rest. Now, did n't it look 
 beautiful to see that elegant Sam goin' after the old 
 folks, and then a-takin' them home 1 I declare if he 
 
220 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 ain't as tall as his father ! It seemed as if my heart 
 would bust when I see Miss Vail put her arms round 
 Jane, and kiss her. I knoioed how to feel for her, so 
 many gals as I 'se married off, and hain't got one left 
 to comfort him and me in our old age ! " 
 
 Jane truly was married; not " married and gone," 
 as we too often have to say of the young bride ; for 
 it was thought a great blessing to Brookside that no 
 stranger had won the prize. The old physician being 
 no longer able to attend to his practice, it had 
 fallen into the hands of his son, who from day to day 
 was finding his way to the hearts of the patients. It 
 is not wonderful that two infirm and aged people 
 should welcome to their silent home a young and 
 beautiful girl whom every one loved ; that they, who 
 never knew a daughter's love, should have their hearts 
 cheered, softened, and made better by her gentle 
 presence and kind attentions. Jane had not gone to 
 this new home for the sole purpose of being loved, 
 admired, and waited on. She saw there arduous 
 duties, which she had resolved to assume ; and, forget- 
 ful of her own ease, she immediately entered upon 
 her mission of love. The desert of old age began to 
 bloom like the rose beneath her gentle hand, and the 
 smiles which her kindness brought to those faded lips, 
 were fixed there by her unwearying love. A lovely 
 face may win, but it can never retain, a husband's 
 heart. The unwavering Christian spirit which Jane 
 had manifested, had led her husband not only to honor 
 religion, but also to honor her doubly for her consist- 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 221 
 
 ency. Now, ■when he saw one so young yielding 
 every thought of self, and devoting her time and 
 strength to his beloved parents, his heart was bound 
 by a sti'onger tie than ever. A blessing, for her sake, 
 rested on the house and its inmates. The faded eye 
 became brighter, and the ear which had long been 
 dull now enjoyed the mellow notes resounding 
 through the square old mansion. Another spring 
 saw flowers, where only weeds had grown of late ; and 
 the open blinds gave a look of life to the house and 
 all around it. The old carryall was seen every pleas- 
 ant day ; for Jane could drive, and thus pass away 
 many an hour which would otherwise have been sad 
 to her new father and mother. ' 
 
 0, ye, whose golden youth is wasted on life's vani- 
 ties, — who flit Hke silly butterflies from flower to flower, 
 — a blighted existence is yours ! Self, little self, is the 
 god you worship ; and therefore, no sad home is made 
 brighter, no weary heart sits lighter for your pres- 
 ence. ■ " Beauty is deceitful, and favor is vain ; but the 
 woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised." 
 
 In the dear old home, Jane was sadly missed. Her 
 ways there had been so quiet and her manner so unob- 
 trusive, when compared with Anna's bustling activity, 
 that a stranger might have thought sh© accomplished 
 very little. But when she was gone, her mother missed 
 a thousand little nameless acts of love ; and good com- 
 manding Anna found that a head to manage, and a voice 
 to give orders, were of little avail when there were no 
 ready hands to fulfil. Sam, too, had gone, carry- 
 
222 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 ing with him, it seemed, half the life of the family. 
 Isabel, however, poured forth her stores of love, and 
 Virginia strove to amuse and assist to the extent of her 
 ability, — making up, in a degree, the loss of the be- 
 loved ones. And then, Sam's loving letters, so like his 
 own dear self, seemed to while away an evening every 
 week, and to draw those fond hearts still closer round 
 ■the only son and brother. Each succeeding letter 
 brought new assurances of his desire to requite their 
 love, by making a diligent use of the time which God 
 had given him to prepare for the battle of life. 
 
 The " home school," now so reduced in numbers, 
 was called "the class," and occupied but two hours. 
 The rest of the time was devoted to general reading, 
 useful visiting, needle-work, and that never-to-be-for- 
 gotten accomplishment, housekeeping; 
 
 Frequent letters, amusing and cheerful, came from 
 the gay southern aunt ; but presuming, gentle reader, 
 that you would feel little interest in hearing of the 
 balls, routs, and so forth, which graced that distant 
 neighborhood, we have passed over their contents in 
 silence. One item, however, may be of interest, as 
 connected with Mrs. Latour. In one of her last let- 
 ters, Mrs. Vernon, who was a tender mistress to her 
 own slaves, and very sensitive as to the treatment 
 of others, wrote, "You will regret, dear Isabel, to 
 hear that Col. Belton has disgraced himself by cruelty 
 towards that faithful old creature Jacques. You re- 
 member that splendid little silver vase which his 
 daughter sent him from Italy, just before she died 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 223 
 
 there. It was carefully put away among other- treas- 
 ures, and Jacques was intrusted with the key. When, 
 after an absence of many months, the colonel returned, 
 the vase alone, of all his plate, was missing. Jacques, 
 of course, was called to account, but knew nothing of 
 it. Threats and the lash failing to extort a confession 
 of guilt, bribes were resorted to. His master even 
 went so far as to pledge him his liberty if he would 
 acknowledge the theft, even should he not be able to 
 restore the vase. But all was in vain ; he still de- 
 clared his innocence in the most solemn manner, calling 
 as his witnesses all the saints in the Methodist calen- 
 dar. The colonel then lost all control of himself, and 
 abused our old favorite in a manner perfectly brutal. 
 Your uncle was so indignant at his barbarity that he 
 has never called on him, nor shown him the least 
 civility, since. Rumor had some time before announced 
 that he and Mrs. Latour were to join hands and plan- 
 tations, if not hearts. As soon, however, as this affair 
 was noised abroad, she, good tender soul, was off, no 
 one knows whither ; but probably to join some convent, 
 to hide herself from the mortification. Her lawyer 
 has advertised all her beautiful estate for sale ; and 
 who knows what kind of neighbors may come in place 
 of that peaceful, inoffensive creature? Your cousin 
 Lizzette deplores her loss, as she could always induce 
 her to give a party, go a journey, or do whatever else 
 she chose." 
 
 On reading this, a painful memory connected with 
 a silver vase being presented to the Sisters of Charity, 
 
224 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 passed over Isabel's mind. She thought that another 
 motive than to rid herself of the gallantries of Jacques' 
 tormentor, might have induced her to seek privacy in 
 the convent. But her lips were sealed on the subject, 
 and to her own Master will Mrs. Latour stand or fall. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A bundled thousand -welcomes ! I could ireep, 
 And I could laugh. I 'm light and heavy ; — welcome ! 
 
 Shaesfbabe. 
 
 The lovely cottage in the guardian nook 
 
 Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook. 
 
 Its own small pasture, almost its own sky ! 
 
 WORDSWOETH. 
 
 Summer smiled in more than its wonted beauty, 
 over the lovely hills and valleys of Brookside. The 
 happy circle at the parsonage had been again broken. 
 Anna had met with one of those beau-ideals of per- 
 fection, so very rare in this fallen world, but which, 
 after all, most young ladies find ; and with him her 
 lot was cast. She had gone, according to her heart's 
 desire, to grace an elegant city mansion ; and glad was 
 the high-spirited girl to be relieved from the thousand 
 little vexations which follow in the train of genteel 
 poverty. 
 
 Sam was in his third college year, laborious and 
 
 hopeful, looking forward (as what young heart does 
 
 not?) to a life of unbroken joy. The well- watered 
 
 seeds of truth had sprung up in his heart, and he 
 
 15 
 
226 ^ THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 gave promise of rewarding, by a useful life, all the 
 
 sacrifices his tender parents had made for him. 
 
 Again the severed ones had met in the dear old 
 home to greet the returned voyagers. There was no 
 watching of clocks, no counting of the lazy hours as 
 they dragged away, no listening, with heating hearts, 
 for approaching wheels, to be again and again deceived. 
 At the appointed time they drove up the carriage- 
 way, and were surrounded by their friends. Herbert 
 had persuaded .himself that he was in honor bound to 
 see Mr. Mclver, as an invalid, to his journey's end, 
 before he could greet the beloved ones at home. Such 
 honorable motives does the young heart often claim 
 for itself, when really gratifying its own most ardent 
 desires. 
 
 Isabel could scarcely believe that the healthy, gray- 
 haired gentleman who folded her in his arms was her 
 father. Anguish, murmuring, and illness, had, indeed, 
 rapidly changed his raven locks; but the spirit of recon- 
 ciliation had, ere this, given to his eye an expression, 
 and to his cheek a glow, which robbed the silver hair of 
 its otherwise saddening effect. When the right time 
 comes, white locks become the face, and add beauty to 
 the countenance. Black hair is, to an aged face, an 
 incongruity as unnatural as would be a rose-tinted 
 cheek with a deeply furrowed brow. 
 
 Isabel wept freely, but her tears were those of joy. 
 With her father was also restored to her another friend, 
 dear to her heart. She could not remember the time 
 when she began to love Herbert, for she had always 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. \ 227 
 
 done so. He it was who led her tenderly when she 
 learned to walk ; he who made all his boyish sports 
 gentler and simpler that she might share them ; he who 
 trained for her the golden oriole and mocking-bird, — 
 who shared her girlish joys, and laughed away her 
 chUdish fears. Little wonder that her cup of joy ran 
 over, for it was twice full at this blest reiinion. The 
 clouds with which nature had shaded her spirit had 
 given way beneath a heavenly shining, and her, whom 
 Herbert left a frail and melancholy girl, he met 
 again a strong, noble, hopeful woman. 
 
 "Virginia manifested her joy in a less romantic way 
 than by weeping. She laughed, jumped, and clapped 
 her hands, and, when she could get near her father, 
 half smothered him with kisses. 
 
 When the happy father was allowed time, he ex- 
 pressed his tenderest thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Vail for 
 their love to his childrenj and for the wisdom with 
 which they had allured Isabel from the snare into 
 which she had so nearly fallen. " I can never half 
 reward you for all you have done ; but God surely 
 will." And well was his prophecy falfiUed; for He 
 who rewardeth the giver of a cup of cold water, 
 remembered the mother's love and the father'' s 
 prayers which had been bestowed upon the motherless 
 girls. 
 
 After a few days at Brookside, during which Herbert 
 and Sam had become warm friends, Mr. Mclver re- 
 minded the former that duty to his family required 
 him to leave the parsonage and seek his home. 
 
228 - THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 " But, you surely will accompany me, -will you not, 
 sir ? " asked the young man. 
 
 "If the poet was right when he said, "tis home 
 where'er the heart is,' I must ahide here a while," 
 rephed Mr. Mclver, smiling. 
 
 " Then, by the same reasoning, sir," answered 
 Herbert, "7, too, shall remain; stnd Sam, if I'm 
 not mistaken," he added, looking archly at him, "will 
 choose not to return to his books ; — but this will give 
 Mrs. Vail a larger family than she cares for. I will 
 wait a few days, if you will then accompany me south 
 with the girls." 
 
 "0, Herbert ! You should be at home now ; this 
 is the day of rest for me, but of toil for you and Sam. 
 What are you doing in your hours of leisure ? " he 
 asked, turning to Sam; "reading law, medicine, or 
 what?" 
 
 " Building castles in the air, sir, and laying out 
 the grounds" replied he, gravely. 
 
 " Ah! these golden dreams are very deceitful, Sam; 
 they melt before they reach the heat of the furnace." 
 
 "My dreams are not of gold, sir," returned Sam. 
 "Indeed, I despise the man who has a passion for 
 wealth. My ambition has always been for happiness, 
 and not for gold! " 
 
 " Sager heads than yours, Sam," returned the 
 gentleman, " have thought happiness and wealth 
 synonymous terms ; or, at least, that the former cannot 
 , exist without the latter." 
 
 " Then they knew less than I do," replied Sam. 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 229 
 
 " My life has been a very happy one, thua far, and 
 I 'm sure it has not been made so by gold." 
 
 " What do you mean to do with yourself when you 
 leave college?" asked Mr. Mclver. But, seeing that 
 Sam hesitated to reply, he added, smiling, "Perhaps 
 I 'm on forbidden ground ; you may wish to keep your 
 plans secret till you burst upon the admiring world 
 in all your brilliancy." 
 
 "No, sir," replied Sam, with unusual gravity; 
 " I 've no desire to dazzle the world. My ambition is 
 to be a scientific and practical farmer. I think it a 
 foolish idea that many parents have, that, to make a 
 gentleman of a son, he must needs be a professional 
 man. Thus, all they can spare is lavished on one 
 boy, and the others are robbed of all but the most com- 
 mon advantages. He is sent to college, studies a 
 profession, dresses in fine cloth, and comes home to 
 laugh to scorn his brothers, who, though but half 
 educated, are, in many cases, nobler men than he. 
 When farmers educate all their sons, ih-Qix farming 
 may become one of the learned professions. As it is, it 
 seems to me the noblest path a man can take through 
 life." 
 
 Mr. Mclver, Herbert, and Mr. Vail, smiled at 
 Sam's earnestness; but he, nothing daunted, continued, 
 " It may be some time before I invite you to eat 
 strawberries and cream with me ; but, after teaching 
 two years, I hope to begin felling trees." 
 
 "Where are the trees you mean to fell, Sam?" 
 asked Mr. Vail. 
 
230 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 " On the headland which overlooks the Btream 
 running through old Mr. Fosdick's farm. I have the 
 refusal of that farm for three years," said Sam. 
 
 " 0, Sam! what a ridiculous idea ! I thought my 
 boy had inoJre common sense than that," exclaimed the 
 father. * ' The old gentleman is in his second child- 
 hood, or he would nevet have made such a bargain 
 with you." 
 
 " Not so much a child, either," replied Sam. " I 
 have cut hay there three summers ; ploughed, planted, 
 and reaped with him ; sometimes merely to help him, 
 and sometimes to earn a little money in vacation. 
 He says I'll make a farmer. He told me yesterday 
 he wished me to take the farm on sheers, as soon as I 
 was let out of college, and pay for it when I could ; 
 the heirs will be in no need of the money if he should 
 die. He will not sell it unless on condition that the 
 old house shall be kept in repair as long as it can 
 be, and then not torn down. He will remain in it as 
 long as he lives." 
 
 "Do you intend to reside in it, also, my son?" 
 asked Mr. Vail, with a smile of quiet humor. 
 
 " No, sir ; when the old folks need it no longer, it 
 will do for one of my men to live in. I shall build 
 on the headland, where the old English elms stand." 
 
 " One of my men ! " repeated Anna, who had 
 been listening eagerly to Sam's day-dream. "Men 
 of straw, working an aerial ferm ! 0, Sam, Sam ! " 
 
 The listeners laughed ; but Sam could afford to be 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 231 
 
 laughed at, and only replied, "I am iu earnest about 
 it" 
 
 "But, look here, farmer," said Herbert, "would 
 you not need some stock on your place, to make it 
 profitable?" 
 
 " Certainly ; — oxen, cows, poultry, &c." 
 
 " And a horse, I suppose 7 " 
 
 " Yes, two of them," replied Sam ; "a good strong 
 fellow, for work, and a carriage-horse, gentle enough 
 for Virginia to dri — , ! I ask your pardon," he 
 exclaimed, blushing deeply, and turning to his cousin ; 
 " I was thinking aloud ! " 
 
 Of course this caused a hearty laugh. Poor Vir- 
 ginia, who had evidently assisted in drawing the plans, 
 was not prepared for this blunder, and tears of vexa- 
 tion filled her eyes. 
 
 "Words have such swift wings, Virgie," he said, 
 " that it is impossible to get them back if once they 
 fly. But, it 's no matter ; these are all our friends, 
 and they would have to know it some time. This 
 need not prevent my having that private interview 
 with your father, when I get an opportunity." 
 
 " 0, Sam, you cruel boy, to tease her so ! " said 
 Jane ; for she had not charity to believe Sam had made 
 a blunder, but thought he was at his old tricks again. 
 
 "I shall feel a deep and sincere sympathy," re- 
 marked Anna, " for the people who buy your butter, 
 Sam, if Virgie is dairy- woman." 
 
 " I should think you knew Sam too well to blush 
 at anything he says, my love," said Mrs. Vail. " We 
 
282 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 of course would not take Mm in earnest, for sunh a 
 thing is quite out of the question. We have often 
 expressed our opinion that cousins are nearly enough 
 connected without marrying." 
 
 Poor Virginia only blushed the more deeply. 
 
 " You know /am not a real cousin to the girls, 
 aunt," remarked Herbert with a satisfied air. 
 
 "I know it," replied the lady, "and I am glad 
 you are not. It is quite out of the question for cous- 
 ins to marry." 
 
 "Not all out of the question, mother dear," re- 
 marked Sam, looking very resolute; " it 's no fault of 
 ours that we're cousins." 
 
 " Do you remember, my son, the conversation we 
 had on this subject, two years ago 7" asked the lady. 
 
 " Yes, mother, I remember it well ; and now, if you 
 all please, we '11 drop the subject. Come," he said, 
 rising, and taking his mother's hand, "let us take a 
 walk to rest ourselves ; for, from some cause or other, 
 I feel very tired, and the air in the room seems close." 
 
 " I should think, if there was a spark of modesty 
 in you, brother," said Anna, " you would feel a little 
 nervous after such a blunder as you just made." 
 
 When Mr. and Mrs. Vail were alone with Mr. 
 Mclver, he, greatly to their surprise, advised them to 
 raise no further objections to the engagement between 
 the cousins, as he saw it was too late now to break it 
 without causing great unhappiness. He said, more- 
 over, that he would purchase Mr. Fosdick's farm, if 
 it was thought a good bargain, and put a man on it 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 233 
 
 for tte present, till Sam should finish his studies. 
 He was highly pleased with Sam's sensible ideas in 
 choosing a profession, as he chose to call it. They 
 visited the worthy old farmer on the following day, 
 without the knowledge of the young people. They 
 stood upon the headland, Sam's chosen huilding-spot. 
 The dark blue hills stretched out before them, and 
 behind lay a deep forest, whose broad old trees boasted 
 of a hundred years. The stream below murmured and 
 babbled past them, carrying its bright waters to the 
 sleek herds which stood drinking in the distance. Mr. 
 Mclver, after gazing around some time in silence, re- 
 marked that he never heard so many birds singing at 
 one time in so public a place. 
 
 " There is a reason for it," answered Mr. Vail ; 
 "this worthy old man has never allowed a bird to 
 be shot on the place. Some one told him once that 
 if he did not put up some scare-crows, and spread nets 
 for the birds, they would steal his grain. ■ ' No, they 
 won't steal it,' he replied, ' for I give it to them. 
 God meant they should have something to eat, or he 
 would never have made them and sent them here.' 
 Besides, he insists that they guaiJ the fruit from in- 
 sects, and thus more than eax'n their living. ,Tf it 
 costs something to keep *iem, he says, he will do it 
 for the sake of their music. These are just Sam's 
 ideas ; he never ca^ed for gunning or fishing, as most 
 boys do. Ther<3 are several points of character in 
 which he and father Fosdick agree. I hope my son 
 may make as good a man as he." 
 
234 .THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 WLen the subject of purcliasing the farm ■waa 
 broached to Sam, he cheerfully relinquished his right, 
 hoping that Mr. Mclver might thereby be induced to 
 remove to the north, and become a neighbor to his 
 father. 
 
CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 " There 's ne'er a bad penny, but aye it will return." 
 
 Mk. McIver and Sam were making some inquiries 
 in town, one day, for a farmer and his wife to take 
 charge of a place in the country, when suddenly the 
 door of the employ ment-oflSce was opened, and a bushy 
 red head, adorned with an unnecessarily ugly face, was 
 thrust in. A harsh Toice cried out, " I say, misther, 
 are ye afther wantin' a stout boy for the counthry 1 " 
 
 " How old is your boy, sir ? " asked the man of the 
 office, taking his pen from behind his ear, to note down 
 the facts in the case. 
 
 " As old as meself, sir ; I 'm the boy as wants the 
 place ! " replied the head. 
 
 " What kind of work can you do ? " 
 
 " I can do iverything, sir, — and more too, if a gin- 
 tleman wants it done. I can take good care of horses 
 and crathurs; I can plough, plant, hoe, rake, chop, 
 reap, drive carriages, wait upon ladies — " 
 
 " Take breath, my friend," said the office man, 
 " you 've plenty of time before you." 
 
 Sam could not be deceived, and, stepping towards 
 the head (for the body was still in the street), he 
 asked, " What is your name, my friend ? " 
 
236 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 "I'm one Jeemes McCorkle, sir, from Ballygor- 
 mon, just convanient to — some big place, the name I 
 forget just now, — but it 's in Ireland. I 've been to 
 sea this two or three years agone ; but, faith, I 'd rather 
 work harder on dhry land nor to be eaten by sharks. 
 But I was a good brave sailor for all that, sir." 
 
 "How would you like to go to Brookside, to work 
 on a farm 1 " asked Sam. 
 
 " To Brookside, is it? " and his countenance felL 
 He looked earnestly in Sam's face, as if to see if he 
 could be trusted with a secret ; then he recognized 
 the countenance, and, springing into the office, head, 
 body and all, he exclaimed, " Sure you are not hia 
 riverence's young gintleman? " 
 
 "Had you forgotten me, Jim, your old friend?" 
 asked Sam, with a pitiful expression sitting ludicrously 
 on his face. 
 
 " 0, masther Sam ! " he cried, grasping his hand, 
 " ye were a mere gossoon when I went away ; but the 
 ould woman, sure she 'd murther me if I wint wd 
 ye!" 
 
 Sam reassured Jim, by telling him that the last 
 that was heard of her, she was following the contrac- 
 tors on the new county rail-road from station to 
 station, keeping a shanty boarding-house, and making 
 money. 
 
 " Young man," called out the office-keeper, " this 
 gentleman is in search of a farmer and dairy-woman. 
 Have you a wife ? " 
 
 "Faith, I havn't thin," said Jim, "for I niver 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 237 
 
 needed one before. But I can git one at any corner 
 o' the street. Sure I 've been jist now talkin' to a 
 rale dacent girl. Her father came out in the steerage 
 of the ship. He lost his wife in Liverpool, jist before 
 we started, and the heart was broke in him. I was 
 the boy as made his gruel, and boiled his pratees, all 
 the voyage, and when the girl heard o' it she offered 
 to pay me. I would n't take her money, and she said 
 she hoped she 'd find some way to pay me. I '11 go 
 straight back and tell her I'll take herself in pay." 
 The people in the office laughed ; but the keeper ad- 
 vised Jim to wait till he saw whether he had a place 
 for himself, before he engaged help to do his work. 
 
 After some conversation, the gentlemen agreed to 
 meet Jim at the same place in the afternoon, and give 
 him an answer. , ' 
 
 Sam had always pitied Jim when a boy, and felt 
 that he might be saved with proper treatment. He 
 now descanted so warmly on his kindness of heart and 
 industrious habits that, notwithstanding his early 
 faults, it was thought best to give him a trial, under 
 the guidance of Mr. Fosdick. There was rough work 
 enough for one man for a year, should he know nothing 
 of farming. 
 
 When this decision was made known to Jim, he 
 expressed great joy, saying, " Sure, I '11 show his 
 riverence, and all the good people at Brookside, that 
 I 'm not the same Jim McCorkle as lived there years 
 ago. I asked the young girl would she marry me, 
 and she said, 'dade she would n't, nor any other man 
 
238 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 as had n't good larnin' and dacint bringin' up. ' But,' 
 says she, ' I rispict ye, for all that ; and if ye will git 
 me a good place in the counthry, -where I can board 
 my father in some dacent Irish family, I 'd like to 
 take him near ye, for I 've nobody now to look afther 
 him, and he 's very sad for your goin' away, as ye 
 was so kind to him on the sea." 
 
 " Well, Jim," said Sam, " we can get along awhile 
 without a dairy-maid." 
 
 " Maybe Nora herself would have me ? " said Jim, 
 inquiringly. 
 
 But liis employers were not so deeply interested in 
 his matrimonial pursuits as he imagined, Mrs. Fos- 
 dick having offered to attend to the dairy a year. 
 Having settled their business, they departed, taking 
 with them the new iiifcumbent. 
 
CHAPTER XXn. 
 
 AU 's well tliat ends well. 
 
 Shakspeabe. 
 
 Should yaa visit Brookside now, gentle reader, 
 you would never recognize the old Fosdick homestead. 
 True, the quaint little house is still there, heneath 
 its old iguardian elms ; but it is repaired and white- 
 washed, and called the " farmer's house." On the 
 top of the hill, overlooking the bright stream, stands 
 a neat Gothic cottage, surrounded with marks of the 
 taste and refinement of those who dwell there. Vir- 
 ginia and Sam are no longer mere cousins; for the 
 eloquence of the latter overcame the well-grounded 
 objections of his parents, and forced them to exchange 
 a beloved niece for a daughter. Sam has the same 
 labor-loving, labor-honoring spirit as when he chopped 
 wood with Jim McCorkle, and cut hay with Mr. Fos- 
 dicki He is not at all ashamed if city friends or 
 college-mates find him at work in his farm attire. 
 Many a richer home shelters heavy hearts ; but these 
 naturally happy spirits do not allow small things to 
 darken their siky. Th^ are determined to be as 
 happy as they can be, and to use God's gifts in making 
 x>thers so. 
 
 Eeader, have you not become sufficiently interested 
 
240 THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 
 
 in our young farmer to pardon Mm for marrying his 
 cousin ? 
 
 Jim has proved himself worthy of the confidence 
 his master placed in him, and is now head man on the 
 farm, and occupies the house hallowed by the life and 
 death of those worthy saints who called it home so 
 many years. A tidy little woman keeps all neat within, 
 — attends to the dairy, and guides by her words and 
 smiles of encouragement the headstrong Jim. This 
 little woman, whom he now addresses as " Misthress," 
 is none but good Nora. After declaring that she was 
 too old to marry such a "gossoon" as Jim, — that 
 she could n't think of taking a " far-dow7ier," — that 
 she would n't marry the son of such a mother, — and, 
 more than all, that she could n't, on any account, leave 
 Mr. and Mrs. Vail ; — after all this, she did marry 
 Jim, and went to her new home quite as a matter 
 of duty ; for, she said, some one must marry him to 
 encourage him to keep out of his old ways; and, 
 changed lad as Jim McCorkle was, she did n't think 
 anybody else would marry such an ugly-looking man ; 
 so she saw no other way but just to take him herself 
 
 " There swims no goose, however gray, but, soon or late. 
 She '11 find some honest gander for her mate." 
 
 The news of Jim's good luck did not fail to reach 
 his mother, who was keeping a shanty boarding-house 
 on a new branch railroad some ten miles distant. The 
 boards for a new depot were to be brought from the 
 sawmill at ' Brookside ; and, seated on the box of the 
 
THE CONVENT AND THE MANSE. 241 
 
 lumber-wagon, arrayed in her best, Mrs. McCorkle 
 set forth to form the acquaintance of her new daugh- 
 ter-in-law. On her arrival she stepped into the mill 
 a moment, when, after boasting that Mr. Jeemes 
 McCorkle was her son, and his wife some great lady, 
 what was her dismay to be answered by the man of 
 the mill, " Why, my good woman, Jim's wife is that 
 Irish gal, Nora, that lived so long to parson Vail's." 
 "Holy Mother ! " exclaimed the widow, raising both 
 hands. Then, turning to the teamster, she cried, 
 " Sure, misther, I don't feel very well, and I '11 not 
 go to my son's, but ride back wid ye." And so she 
 returned to her shanty home, where Barney Quigley 
 reigned supreme ; for it is but justice to say that her 
 spirit was subdued, and her temper chastened. The 
 credit of this reform Barney takes to himself, as, on 
 her first attempt to show her 'thority, he raised the 
 pickaxe to her, which had a most soporific efiect on 
 her belligerent faculties. Nora insists upon Jim's 
 sending his mother a barrel of flour and a pig every 
 winter, for "a mother 's a mother." 
 
 The poor old Irishman to whom Jim showed so 
 much kindness on the sea, finds a home with them, 
 and does such light work on the farm as suits his 
 inclination. His dutiful, pious, and intelligent daugh- 
 ter, Mary Flynn, is the faithful domestic and humble 
 companion of Mrs. Vail, now bereft of all her 
 children. 
 
 The vail of superstition has been drawn from the 
 eyes of all these poor strangers, and every Sabbath 
 16 
 
fc^-.^.i