We were sitting in the Abbess’s private closet; and I now compelled those portraits, which had at first excited my curiosity respecting the secrets of this Convent, to furnish me with an excuse (good or bad) for eluding questions, which I felt but little inclination to answer. —“Holy Mother,” said I, “among all the histories respecting the Ladies of Sargans which you have related, there is one still unknown to me. You have always past over the picture, which represents two female pilgrims, bewildered among the barren wilds of a snow-covered mountain; a picture, which when I first entered this room, drew more of my attention, than any of its companions. I at first believed them to represent the unfortunate sisters, Emmeline and Amalberga; but I do not recollect to have heard (I had nearly said “to have _read_”) any circumstances in their history according with the scene before me. How anxiously they seem to be looking for the right path!—Good Mother, inform me, whether they found it, and what untoward accident brought them into their present distress? You really must make me better acquainted with their adventures, for my whole heart already speaks in their favour.”— —“Does it in truth?” said the Abbess, smiling at my eagerness. “Oh! that good heart!—But look at the picture nearer; see whether you can find in the countenances nothing to justify your partiality, except the expression of distress?”— I drew near, and examined the picture carefully; but I soon turned away again, and felt, that my cheeks were burning; in truth something till then unobserved struck me in the features, but the effect produced was by no means pleasing. —“Well!” enquired the Abbess; “have you discovered any thing?”— —“That general family-likeness,” I replied carelessly, “which is peculiar to the House of Sargans. But I entreat you, Mother, inform me, who do those figures represent?”— —“Two innocent and unfortunate sisters,” was the Abbess’s answer, “driven from their proper station, and compelled even to conceal their very names by a succession of untoward circumstances, not by any fault of their own committing. I could tell you much respecting them, that perhaps would not appear to you uninteresting; but I am too weak to undertake the task at present. However, not to leave your curiosity quite unsatisfied, such an account of them as exists in our archives shall be looked out, and delivered to you in the course of this evening. Probably, you will find this narrative more instructive, and in every respect better worth your inspection, than those which I am compelled to withhold from you, since the latter were written by Females but little skilled in literature; while the history, of which I speak, was transmitted to posterity by the learned pen of an Abbot of Cloister-Curwald.”— —“Of Curwald?” I repeated, with a smile of contempt and incredulity.