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this handkerchief will ever wipe away as many as I have shed upon it! Sister Theresa, I believe you like me to embroider, because I use this cotton; how pretty it is, with this mark upon itthe mark of the cross! that is why it is called nun's cotton, I suppose. But I will not work any more or cry any more to-day. Your evening breeze, Sister Theresa, is going down into the garden, to play."

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My little Marie," said Sister Theresa, "I would do all things for your good; this is the way I excuse myself for having you so near me."

"Ah, yes; and perhaps some day I shall leave off being a butterfly," said Marie, "though that is not the way in the garden; there the ugly worm comes out into the pretty butterfly. But I shall grow into the worm-that is, I shall put on the ugly worm's dress, and cut off my long hair. Now, don't look shocked, dear Sister Theresa, though you did hear those naughty words. If I could be with you more hours a day than I am, I might be better; but you must be either in that tiresome hospital

or "

"I give too little time, now," said Sister Theresa, "to mercy or to devotion. Go away, little child; if you would only pick the flowers alone, and not the weeds!"

"In a convent," thought Marie, as she ran away, "there can be neither flowers nor weeds; but I would like to be good, for Sister Theresa's sake."

She went bounding through a large hall, and found collected there a knot of the sisters. They were eagerly talking over some matter of deep interest. Marie did not mean to linger long, as Sister Theresa had taught her not to join the little gossiping circle that formed itself in the hall whenever the daily news came; for gossip and news of the day penetrate even within the convent walls. The little citadel had its hours of exchange and its moments of prattle. Sometimes the subject was the illness of one of the sisters, its causes, and her probable indiscretion; sometimes it was the bearing of a new comer - a novice from the world. There were little quarrels with the porter, little jealousies among each other. Even these little sins the convent walls do not shut out.

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To-day the talk was of the great news of the peace from Europe, and

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The more sober were discussing in this way the great event of the close of the war in Europe, which had happened many months before; but the younger sisters were listening to the account of the last battle, lingering over the names of the dead.

"M. Benin among the killed!" one exclaimed;" is that the father of Madeline?"

Yes. She had come to the convent when her father left France with the army. She was not one of the little circle present, though every one looked round cautiously. Already the mother must be telling her the sad news.

Sister Theresa must be told; she was from France, too. Yet Sister Theresa had never spoken of friends or home. She had often chided these younger ones who had talked lingeringly of father, brothers or sisters left behindeven of mother. "You have chosen the Bridegroom; you have left all to follow him," she had said.

Marie, after listening to the tale a while, went back to Sister Theresa. She met one of the others who had been to distribute the news; to tell of the peace, or to read out the list of the dead. Marie went in to where she had left Sister Theresa sitting.

She was still in the same spot; leaning back in her seat. Marie went to embrace her, and found her chill and cold! She called her to speak; called, too, for help; but no one heard her. She covered Therese with kisses; she could not bear to leave her.

At last she seemed to breathe a warmth into the cold form; the stiff eyelids relaxed, there was a smile upon the thin lips. Presently, a low voice said: "Speak to no one, Marie: there is

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no help." Her words came feebly and slowly, but she clung to Marie's hand.

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Child, child," she said, at last, and interruptedly, "I was trying to turn my soul to God, but it clung to earth; it followed one I loved. They read me of the death of Madeline's father, and of one other, still nearer to me, than he to her. Now we shall pay our vows together before God. Now, I can love him, since he is no longer on earth. I think the summons has come, yet I know not how soon I am to go. Pray for me, Marie! I could not shut him from my heart, though I had turned my heart to ice. I did not know how I still loved him, I did not know how he still lived in my prayers to God, even. Now he has risen up above the walls that separated me from the world. Now can I love him. God has chosen to lift him up to where I should raise my eyes. God forgive me for my unfaithfulness! My heart did not turn towards Him; now has he kindly broken it. Child, I did not mean to deceive you; I deceived myself, also. Forgive my sin, and pray that God, also, will forgive me!"

The tired eyelids closed, the lips fell into a gentle smile. Marie was terrified by the coldness of the hand that held

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"I KEEP on with my work," Agnes, "because you will keep on with your walking up and down the room in that moody way. I expect to be entertained; and if you won't entertain me, why, my work must. Do sit down, Philip, a few minutes; how can one carry on a conversation with a walking steam-engine?"

"Here am I, opposite to you; what will you do with me?" asked Philip.

"I should like to do something to make you less dolorous," answered Agnes. "I expected to enjoy your coming home again, and talking with But it is not nearly as exciting

you.

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How economical you have grown,' answered Agnes. "I suppose you regret the many you threw away in your youthful days. But, do you know, you have appeared such a dolorous knight since you came home, that I have heard it hinted that you felt badly about my marrying George."

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It is the only thing that has made me happy this long time," said Philip; "I could have asked nothing better." "Thank you! that's complimentary!" answered Agnes. George is your friend. George is a good fellow, and he deserves good fortune-so, it pleases you. But, why that should be your only bright spot, I can't understand. Is it so very dark to come home again after traveling all over the world and seeing everything, to settle down with plenty of money, and nothing to do but enjoy it!"

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"I haven't traveled for pleasure, I haven't seen what I wanted to, I am not ready to settle down,' I don't care for the money, and I don't know how to enjoy it," answered Philip.

"Well! I should say that was positive, if it were not so negative!" cried Agnes. "You mean you will be unhappy anyhow. That is easy enough to manage! One can make a poor dinner off anything. Here in New York there is no sort of necessity of seeing the sun; you may sit in the gloom all day. One may choose to be pricked by the points of the best joke, or find an acid in the flow of the liveliest spirits. It is easy enough to be morose; but, dear Philip, isn't it rather commonplace?"

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You won't answer?" she continued. "Well! that is a resource! Yet it is a disappointment to have you turn out one of that sort. Why, my weakestheaded partner at a ball can talk about life's being a bore!"

"Thank you, Agnes, you need not set me down in that set," answered Philip. "I have a real trouble which is enough to color the rest of my life." "Oh! forgive me! A real trouble! That is an unusual thing. How could

I suspect it! I saw you were gloomy, but I supposed you were moody. This is the dark mood, I thought to myself; by-and-by our moon will turn round, and we shall see the bright side. Everybody ought to be allowed their moods. Sometimes I don't talk for two hours. But there you go, Philip, up and down the room again. Do sit down, and tell me about your real trouble. I am your best friend; you have not any sisters; there is nobody else you can tell. And you know, if I do talk, never tell anything."

"It is a pity you can't do my talking for me," said Philip; "and, indeed, you can't help me."

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Why, what is it?

Have Grimm & Co. failed? Don't your consignments come to hand? That's the kind of thing that worries George. Did you lose your heart on the peak of Teneriffe, or your trunk at Calais ?"

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If it were a game of twenty questions you would soon guess it," answered Philip; "that would save me the trouble of telling you."

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Then I came near, did I? It was the heart, after all, I do believe. Now, tell me all about it!"

"It is not a heart that is lost, but a person. I had the clue, and I have missed it," said Philip.

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"How romantic!" said Agnes; sort of Fair Rosamond. I hope there is no Queen Eleanor on the track!"

"Do you remember Mr. Grayley whom we used to know ?"

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What! Grayley the defaulter, who went off a few years ago with everybody else's money? That is, it turned out he did not carry off the moneybecause he had spent it all before-but he went off just the same. I remember, he was a friend of yours at one time; you went to his pretty place on the Hudson."

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came before me. On my way home, you know, I came overland, and through Spain, passing by the Azores. We had a short time for the town of Fayal. Frisbie and I went on shore for a slight exploration of the town. We passed up a narrow street, under some heavy convent walls. Suddenly a gate opened, and an old portress appeared to talk with some one outside. It was a pretty enough picture; the laden donkey in the street, the suddenly-opened archway, a garden revealed inside, glowing with flowers and fruits, and the picturesque old woman in the door-way. But there was added another feature; there appeared, in the background, a light, youthful figure, and the face was familiar! The gate closed suddenly. I stood fixed before it. It was the little Marie-Marie Grayley! I knocked at the door, but could not get admission. Frisbie thought I was suddenly crazy, and, persuading me that I was, got me off upon the ship. Not till after we had sailed did I convince myself that it was surely Marie that I had seen. At first it seemed impossible that she, whom I had seen so happy at home, should be shut up in a convent; but I reflected that, in my two years' absence, many changes might have taken place, In short, how could I but believe my eyes. I could think of nothing else she haunted me in my voyage night and day. The first news on my return home was of Grayley's misfortune."

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Misfortune!" exclaimed Agnes, "please don't burden Dame Fortune with his misdeeds!"

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"At least, be willing to judge an exiled man kindly, Agnes," answered Philip; I can't believe that he was the only wrong-doer. But, anyhowmy first thought was of his child. I made inquiries of his family. He had none but this one child. He had deserted his country-seat; not a servant could give a trace of his departure. I entered upon the search carefully and thoroughly. The only clue that, at last, I could find was a vague report that he had gone to Havre. But the probability that I had seen Marie became a certainty. Grayley must have left the country a poor man; and this poor child, brought up in the midst of luxury, he might very probably have placed in the school of a convent, while he wandered away himself."

"Was there no grandmother, or

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"I took the next vessel for Fayal," continued Philip.

"Yes, you did not indulge us with a good-by," interrupted Agnes.

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"We had a long, tedious voyage,' Philip went on, "and after I had arrived it was long before I could gain admittance to the convent. At last I was admitted into the parlor, where were displayed articles for sale made by the nuns. In return for some little purchases, I learned that such a young girl had been at the school and had left that very week. I went back into the town and made some inquiries. Mr. Grimshaw, who had been consul at the Cape of Good Hope, or somewhere at the south of Africa, had stopped at Fayal with his four daughters, to take home with them the youngest, who had been at school in the convent. I saw the broad-faced Mr. Grimshaw and some of the daughters. They were so pleased with the island they were going to wait for the next vessel. But I, disheartened and disgusted, took my passage the next day. Now I am eager to go back again.

"The only trophy I have is this embroidered handkerchief I bought at the grating of the convent. It has a strange effect upon me. Whenever I look upon it, it brings back to me the vision of the little Marie as I saw her in the stone archway of the garden."

"Let me look at it. What exquisite work!" exclaimed Agnes. "Oh, Philip, do you remember that beautiful winter we passed in South America? Oh, no, you were not with us. I was an invalid, you know. How delicious it was to lie on my couch and look out upon the blue sea, upon the point of land, and the cocoanut-trees that rose up from it. For yes, there were truly cocoanut-trees there; and below, such rich foliage and flowers glowing, so that it almost pained one's eyes to look upon them. But I asked nothing better than to look all the time, to lie quietly and dream as my eyes feasted upon the glory and the beauty and in those beautiful quiet days, I gained such strength and refreshment. It recalls to me all the resolutions I made to be no longer a mere butterfly, but to live a better and higher life. Then I had nothing to do but think-to think over the past, and

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There is fire in this wing of the hotel! Save yourselves!"

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Go! go! Philip, see if it is true!" cried Agnes. "What a noise! what confusion! I will look for George's papers. I have the handkerchief!""

But she had scarcely time to save herself. She ran for a box of valuable papers of George's, then was hurried down the stairway through the crowd in front of the house. Philip placed her in a carriage, and then went back to see if there were anything else to be saved.

The handkerchief clung to the dress of Agnes, as she hurried through the crowd and fell upon the pavement as she was put into the carriage. There it lay trampled upon by heavy feet, covered with mud, unperceived, until a boy with his eyes on the ground suddenly discovered it, picked it up, and looked around in vain for

an owner.

"What a pretty thing! I will take it home to sister Martha, and ask her about it."

He left the scene of the fire, and hurried on through narrow lanes. He went up three flights of stairs before he reached his home. "Where's mother?" he demanded. "Out washing? I hope I did not wake you up, Martha! I might have known you would be lying here trying to sleep."

"Never mind; how came you home at this time?" asked the languid voice of the sister.

"There's a fire up town, and a jolly row," said the

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"Let's look at it," said Martha. "How beautiful it is, and such fine stuff as it is made of. Oh! Jemmy, that is what I miss now I am sick. It is good to be at home, and have mother care for me when she has time for it, but-it is wicked for me to say soeverything seems coarse round me! Out at service anywhere, even at Mrs. Flint's, where there were hard words enough, it was pleasant to see the fine furniture and the beautiful clothes; and Miss Julia used to look so lovely when she was dressed. Oh! Jemmy! when will I get well?"

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Well, the doctor said this kind of fever lasted five or six weeks, and then-"

"But how beautifully this is worked,

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