kissed me when I was asleep!" I exclaimed.

Her brow contracted for a moment as if she were in pain. A hectic spot
came out suddenly on either cheek, and vanished almost as swiftly. "Yes,
it was I who came to your room last night," she said. "You are not vexed
with me for doing so?"

"On the contrary, I love you for it."

Her smile, the sweetest I ever saw, beamed out at this. Gently she
stroked my hair. "You looked so forlorn and weary last night," she said,
"that after I got to bed I could not help thinking about you. I was
afraid you would not be able to sleep in a strange place, so I could not
rest till I had visited you: but I never intended to awake you."

"I do not mind how often I am awakened in the same way," I said. "No one
has ever seemed to love me but you, and I cannot help loving you back."

"My poor child!" was all she said. We had sat down by this time close to
the window, and Sister Agnes was holding one of my hands in hers and
caressing it gently as she gazed dreamily across the park. My eyes,
child-like, wandered from her to the room and then back again. The
picture still lives in my memory as fresh as though it had been limned
but yesterday.

A square whitewashed room, fitted up with furniture of unpolished oak.
On the walls a few proof engravings of subjects taken from Sacred
History. A small bookcase in one corner, and a _prie-dieu_ in another.
The floor uncarpeted, but polished after the French fashion. A
writing-table; a large workbox; a heap of clothing for the poor; and