carry me off."

"And--when the time came?"

"He was not there. I never saw him again."

The Prioress turned, and looked out through the oriel window. She
seemed to be weighing, carefully, what she should say.

When at length she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed upon the waving
tree-tops beyond the Convent wall.

"Sister Seraphine," she said, "many who embrace the religious life,
know what it is to pass through the experience you have now had; but,
as a rule, they fight the temptation and conquer it in the secret of
their own hearts, in the silence of their own cells.

"Memories of the life that was, before, choosing the better part, we
left the world, come back to haunt us, with a wanton sweetness. Such
memories cannot change the state, fixed forever by our vows; but they
may awaken in us vain regrets or worldly longings. Therein lies their
sinfulness.

"To help you against this danger, I will now give you two prayers,
which you must commit to memory, and repeat whenever need arises. The
first is from the Breviary."

The Prioress drew toward her a black book with silver clasps, opened
it, and read therefrom a short prayer in Latin. But seeing no light of
response or of intelligence upon the face of Sister Seraphine, she