amused air. "There _are_ no Chinese convents. To be sure those
rebels are a kind of Christians," she added thoughtfully, "but there
can't be many of them left, poor things, hundreds of them executed at a
time, that way. It's perfectly sickening to read of it; and you can't
help it, you know. But they say they haven't really so much feeling as
we have--not so nervous."

She walked by the side of the young friar as he led the way to such
parts of the convent as are open to visitors, and Mr. Ferris came after
with her daughter, who, he fancied, met his attempts at talk with
sudden and more than usual hauteur. "What a fool!" he said to himself.
"Is she afraid I shall be wanting to make love to her?" and he followed
in rather a sulky silence the course of Mrs. Vervain and her guide. The
library, the chapel, and the museum called out her friendliest praises,
and in the last she praised the mummy on show there at the expense of
one she had seen in New York; but when Padre Girolamo pointed out the
desk in the refectory from which one of the brothers read while the
rest were eating, she took him to task. "Oh, but I can't think that's
at all good for the digestion, you know,--using the brain that way
whilst you're at table. I really hope you don't listen too attentively;
it would be better for you in the long run, even in a religious point
of view. But now--Byron! You _must_ show me his cell!" The monk
deprecated the non-existence of such a cell, and glanced in perplexity
at Mr. Ferris, who came to his relief. "You couldn't have seen his
cell, if he'd had one, Mrs. Vervain. They don't admit ladies to the
cloister."

"What nonsense!" answered Mrs. Vervain, apparently regarding this as
another of Mr. Ferris's pleasantries; but Padre Girolamo silently
confirmed his statement, and she briskly assailed the rule as a