“For one whole month, my child,” said Mr. Warden, carefully watching his daughter’s face, “he was broken-hearted, inconsolable, in fact all but a madman. The next,” he said this very slowly, for he was loth to strike the blow, “he was engaged to Mary Burton, and married ten days afterwards.” A start, a shiver, a very flushed and then a very pale face, that was all, and then Amy repeated in a strangely quiet tone, “Married to Mary Burton! I remember her well, that large, fair, good-looking girl, who didn’t know how to make men look at her! We won’t talk any more to-day, papa. The little doctor will scold me if I keep you up late and tire you. Ah!” she said with a sigh and a look towards the mountains, “I think those little brown nuns at St. Geneviève have a far better time of it than we who stand out here in the cold and storm to fight our life’s battle!” CHAPTER XV. “SHE was like a wild bird beating its wings against its prison bars,” said Amy, continuing her narrative a few days before they started for England. “The excitement and pleasure of seeing me had acted magically on her, so much so that I found it difficult to realize the truth of Isola’s description of her before my coming. In a day or two, however, the excitement subsided, and I became seriously alarmed. She seemed possessed by a spirit of unrest, and I began to fear for her reason. No sleep at night, no rest for one five minutes in the day. She fulfilled all her religious duties faithfully (they were not heavy ones, and the Abbess was indulgent) but every spare moment she spent with me was passed in one ceaseless moan. ‘I must see him; there will be no peace for me till I have looked at the dear face again. Help me, my child, help me!’ I knew not what to do for the best. I felt it would be useless to consult the Abbess, or even the Convent Confessor, on the matter, as their experience in the world’s ways was even less than mine, and they looked upon everything in the light of their religion. Besides, I knew there was no possibility of their allowing my mother outside the walls, even in charge of a sister, for their rules on this point were strict. What could be done? I felt, too, that you ought to be written to by some one, but by whom? Mercy to Mrs. Warden, whom I was convinced was ignorant of my mother’s existence, withheld my hand, and whom could I trust in such a matter, or to whom, indeed, could I expose my father’s guilt? I felt confident in my own mind that you would naturally guess whither I had gone, and would possibly frame some excuse for me to Mrs. Warden and others. But, O, my father, I have no words to express the agony, the absolute torture of mind I suffered at the thought of your unworthiness, of your cruelty to one whom I believed to be so noble and good as my mother.