faithless and a sinner, still bears his love in his heart and you have not been able to root yours up and cast it out.  He has done his worst, and in doing it—­remember his letter—­in doing it, I say, has poisoned his own young life already.  In that Babel called Paris he does but reel from one pleasure to another.  But how long can that last?  Do you not see, as I see, that the day must come when, sickened and loathing all this folly he will deem himself the most wretched soul on earth, and look about him for the firm shore as a sailor does who is tossed about in a leaking ship at sea?  Then will he call to mind the past, his childhood and youth, his pure love and yours.  Then you yourself, you, Ann, will be the island haven for which he will long.  Then—­aye, child, it is so, you will be the only creature that may help him; and if you really crave to create happiness—­if your love is as true as—­not so long ago—­you declared it to be, on your knees before me and with scalding tears, he, and not Master Peter must be the first on whom you should carry out your day-dreams—­for I know not what other name to give to such vain imaginings.”

At this Ann sobbed aloud and wrung her hands, crying:  “But he cast me off, sold me for gold and silver.  Can I, whom he has flung into the dust, seek to go after him?  Would it beseem an honest and shamefaced maid if I called him back to me?  He is happy—­and he will still be happy for many long, long years amid his reckless companions; if the time should ever come of which you speak, most worshipful lady, even then he will care no more for Ann, bloomless and faded, than for the threadbare bravery in which he once arrayed himself.  As for me and my love, warmly as it will ever glow in my breast, so long as I live and breathe, he will never need it in the life of pleasure in which he suns himself.  It is no vain imagining that I have made my goal, and if I am to bring joy to the wretched I must seek others than he.”

“Right well,” said my aunt, “if so be that your love is no worthier nor better than his.”

And from the unhappy maid’s bosom the words were gasped out:  “It is verily and indeed true and worthy and deep; never was truer love . . .”

“Never?” replied my aunt, looking at her enquiringly.  “Have you not read of the love of which the Scripture speaketh?  Love which is able and ready to endure all things.”

And the words of the Apostle came into my mind which the Carthusian sister had graven on our memories, burning them in, as it were, as being those which above all others should live in every Christian woman’s heart; and whereas I had hitherto held back as beseemed me, I now came forward and said them with all the devout fervor of my young heart, as follows:  “Charity suffereth long and is kind; Charity envieth not; Charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up; seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.”