“Fi donc, Rosie!” said the girl’s voice in French; “la bonne Mere Marguerite sera tres tres fachee avec toi.”

“Tais-toi, petite sainte!” cried another voice more piercing and silvery in tone.  “Je veux voir qui est la!  C’est un homme je sais bien—­parceque la vieille Mere Laura a rougi!” and both young voices broke into a chorus of renewed laughter.

Then came the shuffling noise of the old nun’s footsteps returning; she evidently caught the two truants, whoever they were, for I heard her expostulating, scolding and apostropnizing the saints all in a breath, as she bade them go inside the house and ask the good little Jesus to forgive their naughtiness.  A silence ensued, then the bolts and bars of the huge gate were undone slowly—­it opened, and I was admitted.  I raised my hat as I entered, and walked bareheaded through a long, cold corridor, guided by the venerable nun, who looked at me no more, but told her beads as she walked, and never spoke till she had led me into the building, through a lofty hall glorious with sacred paintings and statues, and from thence into a large, elegantly furnished room, whose windows commanded a fine view of the grounds.  Here she motioned me to take a seat, and without lifting her eyelids, said: 

“Mother Marguerite will wait upon you instantly, signor.”

I bowed, and she glided from the room so noiselessly that I did not even hear the door close behind her.  Left alone in what I rightly concluded was the reception-room for visitors, I looked about me with some faint interest and curiosity.  I had never before seen the interior of what is known as an educational convent.  There were many photographs on the walls and mantelpiece—­portraits of girls, some plain of face and form, others beautiful—­no doubt they had all been sent to the nuns as souvenirs of former pupils.  Rising from my chair I examined a few of them carelessly, and was about to inspect a fine copy of Murillo’s Virgin, when my attention was caught by an upright velvet frame surmounted with my own crest and coronet.  In it was the portrait of my wife, taken in her bridal dress, as she looked when she married me.  I took it to the light and stared at the features dubiously.  This was she—­this slim, fairy-like creature clad in gossamer white, with the marriage veil thrown back from her clustering hair and child-like face—­this was the thing for which two men’s lives had been sacrificed!  With a movement of disgust I replaced the frame in its former position; I had scarcely done so when the door opened quietly and a tall woman, clad in trailing robes of pale blue with a nun’s band and veil of fine white cashmere, stood before me.  I saluted her with a deep reverence; she responded by the slightest possible bend of her head.  Her outward manner was so very still and composed that when she spoke her colorless lips scarcely moved, her very breathing never stirred the silver crucifix that lay like a glittering sign-manual on her quiet breast.  Her voice, though low, was singularly clear and penetrating.