attendant as a contemptible interloper.

Long, long did the maiden weep and pray that night after Ermentrude
had sunk to sleep. She strained her eyes with home-sick longings to
detect lights where she thought Ulm might be; and, as she thought of
her uncle and aunt, the poodle and the cat round the stove, the maids
spinning and the prentices knitting as her uncle read aloud some
grave good book, most probably the legend of the saint of the day,
and contrasted it with the rude gruff sounds of revelry that found
their way up the turret stairs, she could hardly restrain her sobs
from awakening the young lady whose bed she was to share. She
thought almost with envy of her own patroness, who was cast into the
lake of Bolsena with a millstone about her neck--a better fate,
thought she, than to live on in such an abode of loathsomeness and
peril.

But then had not St. Christina floated up alive, bearing up her
millstone with her? And had not she been put into a dungeon full of
venomous reptiles who, when they approached her, had all been changed
to harmless doves? Christina had once asked Father Balthazar how
this could be; and had he not replied that the Church did not teach
these miracles as matters of faith, but that she might there discern
in figure how meek Christian holiness rose above all crushing
burthens, and transformed the rudest natures. This poor maiden-
dying, perhaps; and oh! how unfit to live or die!--might it be her
part to do some good work by her, and infuse some Christian hope,
some godly fear? Could it be for this that the saints had led her
hither?