"That may be, sister Angela," the bishop said, sternly. "It is easy to be kind in manner when all goes well with you in the world; it is easier and more pleasant, but it is mere outside. What avails this if within all is rotten, if the vital point of all is wanting? Such a man is but a whited sepulchre. However," he continued, more mildly, "for your sake, my sisters, the Church has been content to wait; for your sake it has forborne to use the power of cursing and anathema which is confided to her, here upon earth; for your sake it is content to remain tranquil under the privation of the worldly goods which in her hands would have done such incalculable good, but which are now devoted to far different purposes." Here the bishop paused, and there was silence for a little, and then the elder sister again asked,-- "And our request, father; will you grant us now that we may retire to a convent? Our task is done here." "Your task is not done," the bishop said, sternly, "and may not be relinquished. Our path in this life must be regulated by our duty, not our wishes. Your duty is plain,--to endeavour to restore to the Church that property of which it has been unjustly defrauded. No one can perform this but you; and although at present things have worked but ill, yet no one can say what may yet occur. You have already, in your brother's present position, a striking instance of the unexpected way in which the events of this world occur, and how little we can foresee the intentions of God. Who can say, therefore, that in time this great wrong may not be rectified, and that the will of your dead brothers, those true children of the Church, may not yet be carried into effect? Events have indeed turned out badly, but there is no ground for losing hope; and you, who have hitherto worked so well for the good cause, I little looked to see shrink from your allotted task; I expected better things of you, sister Cecilia and sister Angela,--you, of all women, having once put your hands to the plough, I did not think to see turn back from the labour." "But we have tried hard, father, very hard for many long years," Cecilia Harmer said, "and it is only because we find that our work has come to nothing, that it is over, as it were, that we would gladly retire to die in peace and quietness. It is eighteen years since we left the convent we had entered, when the news came of our nephew's death. You bade us go, and we went. For eighteen years we have worked and hoped. Hope and work are over now; let us rest." "It has been so long, father, such weary years, almost without hope all the while; we are so tired--so, so sick of the world. Oh, father, let us go back to our convent!" the younger sister almost wailed, plaintively.