Maude could not answer; a thrill of agony shook her trembling frame, and she became deadly pale. Sophia glanced at her mourning-dress, and the truth flashed across her mind. Tears came into her clear blue eyes; for she had long thought of Annie with affection, and she felt deeply for the bereaved sister, who now sat beside her, tearless indeed, but with that expression of mental suffering, which incapacitates the mind from dwelling on any object but that from which it is suffering torture. Sophia saw this, and most fully she sympathized with her unhappy friend. She felt sure that Maude was no longer a Papist, but little did she know the burden of grief and self-accusation which weighed down the bursting heart of that sorrowing mourner. CHAPTER IV. BEFORE the shades of evening fell, Sophia had led her long-lost friend to the rectory; had introduced her to her husband; and, finally, had heard from Maude the particulars of her sad history, from the time of her departure from Winchester. "Sweet Annie;" said Sophia, when Maude had ceased to speak, "it were wrong to grieve for her. Even in my own dark hours of error, when I knew your gentle sister as an enemy to the false religion which I then professed, I was won to admire such Protestantism as hers; and never from that time have I witnessed such meekness combined with such holy boldness; such a freedom from everything worldly or selfish; and, above all, such calm, heavenly peace, as evidently marked her character; and now that she is gone, dear Maude, we know that she is safe with that Saviour whom she loved so much. It is very clear, that times of tribulation for the Church of Christ are at hand ; a whirlwind of sorrows seems to be gradually but surely rising; and the time may come, when you and I, Maude, may think of that quiet restingplace in the fair valley of Verdenthal where our beloved Annie sleeps in peace, and may rejoice that she is there, safe from all the storms at whose fury we tremble, and may thank God, who hath taken her away from the evil to come." It was a sweet consolation to Maude to hear Sophia speak thus of her departed sister; and while they spoke of by-gone days, and Mr. Manningford joined in the conversation, time flew so rapidly, that the church-clock struck ten before Maude remembered Margarita, and the alarm she must necessarily feel at her protracted absence. She rose to go, and Mr. Manningford accompanied her to the cottage, where they found Margarita in a state of extreme anxiety. Mr. Manningford himself explained to Mademoiselle Ridot the cause of her friend's unexpected detention; and after engaging them both to spend the next day at the rectory, he took his departure, leaving Maude to detail to Margarita the adventures of the evening. Early the next morning Mrs. Manningford received her welcome visitors, and after a short walk through the garden, Maude recurred to the subject which had occupied her mind throughout the preceding night. "Does not this remind you of our garden stroll at Winchester ?" she said. "It does, indeed, dear Maude. Ah! at our last parting, in that pleasant arbour of clematis, how little did we think of the circumstances of our meeting again; then, we were both bigoted Romanists; at least in heart you were so, and I was so, by profession, as well as by conviction. Now, I trust, we are Protestants, not only in name, but Protestants fully convinced of the error of the doctrines which we have abjured; and, as I humbly hope, joined unto the Church of Christ, in an everlasting union. But, Maude, you have recounted your own tale; do you not feel curious to know what could have led me to renounce the system in which I was so carefully educated; the system, in which I so firmly and uncompromisingly believed, and which I loved so well, that I would gladly have laid down my life for the honour and glory of Romanism? "Indeed, Sophia," returned Maude, "I have thought of little else since we parted. My own escape was indeed wonderful; and I owe it to His almighty power, and infinite mercy, who willeth not the death of a sinner, that I am not now the deluded inmate of a convent-cell; but I do long to hear, my dear Sophia, what could have led you to turn away from all which you had previously considered, so far as religion is concerned, as the only truth and reality in existence." Sophia proposed a return to the house, ere she commenced her narrative; and when she, and Maude, and Margarita, were seated with their needlework, by the open drawing-room window, she began to recount all that had happened to herself, since she had parted with Maude at Winchester. "You well know, dearest Maude," said Sophia, "the state of my mind, when you and I were friends at the convent. At that time I should have turned away with horror and indignation from any one who had dared to hint, that I might at some future time become a Protestant. n you were gone, I missed you extremely; your frequent visits had been a relief amid the monotonous round of our duties; and when I knew that you would come no more, I felt that I should indeed greatly miss the little excitement, which the anticipation of seeing you almost daily had inspired. For some time I did not attempt to analyze my own feelings; indeed, I never thought of any other source of my dulness, than that I felt grieved at parting with you; but at length the idea flashed upon me, that I was actually rebelling against my holy vocation, which had forbidden the cherishing of anything like exclusive human affection. I was shocked by this idea; and I struggled hard to overcome my depression and listlessness; and for a little while I succeeded; but before the tints of autumn tinged our garden trees, I was again unhappy; again craving after I knew not what. None knew the conflicting emotions thus aroused in my breast; none even entertained a suspicion of them. It was indeed remarked by several inmates of the convent, how much graver Sophia Milwood had become; but my gravity was attributed to the near approach of the season at which my noviciate would commence; no one ever dreamed that unwillingness to become a novice, was one source of my sedate thoughtfulness. Autumn had nearly passed away, the flowers had all disappeared, save a few lingering roses, and some sober, unassuming Michaelmas daisies, when I received a letter from an aunt of mine, who lived in Devonshire, desiring me to spend the Christmas vacation with her; and to defer the ceremony of taking the white veil till early in the ensuing spring. To the utter astonishment of my convent friends, I received this invitation with rapture, and I began my preparations for the journey with so much alacrity, that I felt that many looked upon me with a suspicious eye. But the day arrived; the carriage stood at the door of my gloomy prison-house! and I bade my companions what I then thought a temporary adieu; but never have I seen them since. The next day brought me to my aunt's residence. I had not seen her for many years, not since my childhood; and my recollections respecting her were very indistinct, yet I remembered that she was kind, and extremely gentle in her manner. The cottage which she inhabited was situated in one of the loveliest spots of that lovely county, Devonshire. The little mansion itself was completely mantled with roses, jessamine, clematis, woodbine, and other graceful climbing plants. The garden in which it stood was spacious, and like a fairy-land; the turf was so soft and green; the flowers, too, bloomed with a luxuriance very unusual in winter; what it must have been in summer, I could scarcely imagine. The valley which stretched below was thickly wooded, and skirted by gray rocks; while, at a greater distance, lay the clear waters of the British Channel, sparkling in the bright sunbeams of a serene December noon. After the one, long, dismal scene on which I had for so many years gazed, how glorious did all this appear! I thought that I had never before seen the sky so cloudless; so deeply, beautifully blue; never had I seen such flowers; there were roses, which, as if in mockery of the season, clustered round the verandah; their soft, pink leaves glowing in the clear sunshine; and the evergreens so richly green; holly, with its shining glossy leaves and coral wreath; the dark, solemu yew, with its soft, scarlet, waxlike berries; and the luxuriant lauristinus, with graceful clusters of flowers, so pearly, so waxen, and so pure; all these things made the place, in my eyes, a paradise. But I forgot all external beauties, when I found myself seated in my aunt's comfortable drawing-room, and partaking of an excellent repast after my long journey. "My aunt Catherine, who has now been a widow for many years, was, like myself, educated in a convent, and destined to the veil; but circumstances wrought a change in her plans, and she married. She has two daughters, Kate and Clara; and she is, and has been for many years, devoted to literary pursuits. I hope you will, before long, see my beloved aunt, for, Maude, you and Mademoiselle Ridot must return with us into Devonshire; but I must say a word in description of her. She is just fifty years of age; and she has the loveliest face I ever saw; nay, do not smile, Mademoiselle Margarita ; it is as possible for a woman of fifty to be lovely, as it is for a belle of twenty, though not exactly in the same way. Aunt Catherine has not a single good feature; and her hair is as white, Margarita, as the snow-wreath on your own mountains; and moreover, she wears a close, old-fashioned cap, trimmed with white ribbons." Margarita laughed outright at this description of a beauty, and observed, "I suppose the loveliness of which you speak lies in her character and her intellect." "Her character,” replied Sophia, "is indeed loveliness itself; and her intellect is of the first order; but she possesses also external attractions I refer to you, Arthur, for a confirmation of my statement." : Mr. Manningford declared, that his wife did not speak from mere prepossession or partiality; "but," he continued, "you had better leave this point to be decided when we all meet at Rock Cottage." "Well, I will continue my story ;" said Sophia. "I was introduced to my cousins; and Kate won my affections before I had been ten minutes in her company. The evening came. Oh! how well I remember that long, happy evening, so different from those which I had been accustomed to spend! We worked, and read, and talked, until Aunt Catherine and Kate remembered that it was an imperative duty to write some letters for the next day's post. I sat on the sofa, professing to read, but in reality I was gazing at my aunt and my cousins, and thinking how I should like to live with them always; and the remembrance of the gloomy convent caused a shudder to run through my frame. My aunt was busily occupied with her pen; but sometimes she stopped to make a few remarks, or to think; and I could not but admire the deeply intellectual, but equally gentle and loving expression of her eyes, as she raised them from the paper, sometimes to speak to myself, and sometimes to fix them, full of thought and feeling, on her daughter, who sat opposite to her, writing a letter. Kate is not much like her mother; but she has the same sweetness of expression, the same lovely smile, and there is something in her soft, dark eyes, which always reminds me of your dear sister Annie. While I gazed upon her countenance I could not at first comprehend what caused its beauty, but I soon felt that it was the simplicity, the gentleness, and the purity which dwelt in her heart, and shone forth in her calm, happy face. Clara is a really beautiful girl; she was rather timid, and that evening she did not address me, but I saw her steal frequent kind glances towards me, from beneath her long, silken eyelashes, while she sat writing at a separate table. The letters were soon directed, sealed, and ready for posting, and we were summoned to supper; during which meal, we chatted cheerfully, and I gave my aunt many details of my convent life. Sometimes I thought she looked sad, and I determined to confide to her my repugnance to take the veil, and to beg her to advise me, as to the step which I ought to take in this matter. Soon after supper the striking of the clock reminded my aunt that it was time for prayers. I saw Kate look at me, then at her mamma; and Clara hesitatingly said, Will Sophia come?' Oh surely, I said, I am not at all tired now; and I felt quite puzzled at the anxiety evidently manifested by both sisters. We adjourned to the dining room, and while the domestics were assembling, I remarked that my aunt's gentle countenance had assumed rather an uneasy expression, but it soon subsided, and she began to read. With astonishment, which you, Maude, can understand better than I can describe, I heard Mrs. Milwood commence the eighth chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans. I listened to |