lastly, a stand for flowers.

The features of Sister Agnes were as delicate and clearly cut as those
of some antique statue, but their habitual expression was one of intense
melancholy. Her voice was low and gracious: the voice of a refined and
educated gentlewoman. Her hair was black, with here and there a faint
silver streak; but the peculiar head-dress of white linen which she wore
left very little of it visible. Disfiguring as this head-dress might
have been to many people, in her case it served merely to enhance the
marble whiteness and transparent purity of her complexion. Her eyebrows
were black and well-defined; but as for the eyes themselves, I can only
repeat what I said before--that their dark depths were full of
tenderness and a sort of veiled enthusiasm difficult to describe in
words. Her dress was black, soft and coarse, relieved by deep cuffs of
white linen. Her solitary ornament, if ornament it could be called, was
a rosary of black beads. Not without reason have I been thus particular
in describing Sister Agnes and her surroundings, as they who read will
discover for themselves by-and-by.

Sister Agnes woke up from her reverie with a sigh, and began talking to
me about my schooldays and my mode of life at Park Hill Seminary. It was
a pleasure to me to talk, because I felt it was a pleasure to her to
listen to me. And she let me talk on and on for I can't tell how long,
only putting in a question now and again, till she knew almost as much
about Miss Chinfeather and Park Hill as I knew myself. But she never
seemed to grow weary. We were sitting close together, and after a time I
felt her arm steal gently round my waist, pressing me closer still; and
so, with my head nestling against her shoulder, I talked on, heedless of
the time. O happy afternoon!