fun of the “Blessed Theresa,” and so she was put upon further probation, with the injunction to say the seven penitential Psalms seven times a day, until she was in a holier frame of mind; which she did, though under protest that she didn’t think the words composed by David to express his remorse for his own enormous sin exactly suited her case.  Sister Theresa, if the least steady and devout, was certainly the most active and zealous and courageous among them all.  She yawned horribly over the long litanies and long sermons; but if ever there was a work of mercy requiring extraordinary labor, privation, exposure and danger, Sister Theresa was the one to face, in the cause, lightning and tempest, plague, pestilence and famine, battle and murder, and sudden death!  Happy was she? or content?  No; she was moody, hysterical and devotional by turns—­sometimes a zeal for good works would possess her; sometimes the old fun and quaintness would break out, and sometimes an overwhelming fit of remorse—­each depending upon the accidental cause that would chance to arouse the moods.

Humane creatures are like climates—­some of a temperate atmosphere, taking even life-long sorrow serenely—­never forgetting, and never exaggerating its cause—­never very wretched, if never quite happy.  Others of a more torrid nature have long, sunny seasons of bird-like cheerfulness and happy forgetfulness, until some slight cause, striking “the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound,” shall startle up memory—­and grief, intensely realized, shall rise to anguish, and a storm shall pass through the soul, shaking it almost to dissolution, and the poor subject thinks, if she can think, that her heart must go to pieces this time!  But the storm passes, and nature, instead of being destroyed, is refreshed and ready for the sunshine and the song-birds again.  The elastic heart throws off its weight, the spirits revive, and life goes on joyously in harmony with nature.

So it was with Jacquelina, with this sad difference, that as her trouble was more than sorrow—­for it was remorse—­it was never quite thrown off.  It was not that her conscience reproached her for the fate of Dr. Grimshaw, which was brought on by his own wrongdoing, but Marian’s fate—­that a wild, wanton frolic of her own should have caused the early death of one so young, and beautiful, and good as Marian! that was the thought that nearly drove poor Jacquelina mad with remorse, whenever she realized it.  Dr. Grimshaw was forgiven, and—­forgotten; but the thought of Marian was the “undying worm,” that preyed upon her heart.  And so, year after year, despite the arguments and persuasions of nearest friends, and the constancy of poor Cloudy, Jacquelina tearfully turned from love, friendship, wealth and ease, and renewed her vows of poverty, celibacy, obedience, and the service of the poor, sick and ignorant, in the hope of expiating her offense, soothing the voice of conscience, and gaining peace.  Jacquelina