So much for the convent and the work that I was to do in it.  My next anxiety was to see how the restrictions imposed on me were to be carried out.  The first day, the Mother Superior herself mounted guard in the parlor—­a stern, silent, fanatical-looking woman, who seemed determined to awe me and make me uncomfortable, and who succeeded thoroughly in the execution of her purpose.  The second day she was relieved by the officiating priest of the convent—­a mild, melancholy, gentleman-like man, with whom I got on tolerably well.  The third day, I had for overlooker the portress of the house—­a dirty, dismal, deaf, old woman, who did nothing but knit stockings and chew orris-root.  The fourth day, a middle-aged nun, whom I heard addressed as Mother Martha, occupied the post of guardian to the precious Correggio; and with her the number of my overlookers terminated.  She, and the portress, and the priest, and the Mother Superior, relieved each other with military regularity, until I had put the last touch to my copy.  I found them ready for me every morning on entering the parlor, and I left them in the chair of observation every evening on quitting it.  As for any young and beautiful nuns who might have been in the building, I never so much as set eyes on the ends of their veils.  From the door to the parlor, and from the parlor to the door, comprised the whole of my experience of the inside of the convent.

The only one of my superintending companions with whom I established anything like a familiar acquaintance was Mother Martha.  She had no outward attractions to recommend her; but she was simple, good-humored, ready to gossip, and inquisitive to a perfectly incredible degree.  Her whole life had been passed in the nunnery; she was thoroughly accustomed to her seclusion, thoroughly content with the monotonous round of her occupations; not at all anxious to see the world for herself; but, on the other hand, insatiably curious to know all about it from others.  There was no question connected with myself, my wife, my children, my friends, my profession, my income, my travels, my favorite amusements, and even my favorite sins, which a woman could ask a man, that Mother Martha did not, in the smallest and softest of voices, ask of me.  Though an intelligent, well-informed person in all that related to her own special vocation, she was a perfect child in everything else.  I constantly caught myself talking to her, just as I should have talked at home to one of my own little girls.

I hope no one will think that, in expressing myself thus, I am writing disparagingly of the poor nun.  On two accounts, I shall always feel compassionately and gratefully toward Mother Martha.  She was the only person in the convent who seemed sincerely anxious to make her presence in the parlor as agreeable to me as possible; and she good-humoredly told me the story which it is my object in these pages to introduce to the reader.  In both ways I am deeply indebted to her; and I hope always to remember the obligation.