“It is half a mile to the village. You are very weak. Permit me to attend you to the convent near. It wilt be no inconvenience. Lean on me, dear Madame.” She spoke these words calmly and slowly, but, as if she were to be obeyed. I followed her mechanically, or rather tottered along by her side without question. I felt too much exhausted to talk, and also the need of immediate repose and care in my wearied condition. A few minutes walk brought us to the convent gate. An old man, who was also the gardener, opened it, and two of the sisters hurried to the door to receive us. A slight gesture from my guide, produced profound silence, and I was at once taken to a room and a bed. I awoke from an unconscious state, produced I supposed by the sedative I had drank immediately on my arrival, and looked languidly around me. I remember my first feeling was one of surprise at the comfortable appearance of every thing near and about me. I had never been in a convent before, and had supposed, with the vague notions of Protestantism about convents, that I should be put in a cell at least, with probably a death’s head and cross-bones for furniture, and a hair-cloth and thongs for entertainment. On the contrary, I felt myself lying on a down-bed—muslin curtains gathered in delicate folds above it—the windows shaded with the same material—waving lightly to and fro in the summer night air. The oaken floor so highly polished, and the neat table holding a nurse-lamp and some phials. Besides that, there was no look of a sick-room. The lamp shone on the mild face of the Madonna of Sassoferato, whose clasped hands and conventual garb seemed to make her the tutelar genius of such a scene; and below, was the never-failing crucifix of ivory on a bronze stand. Not a sound, but the sighing of the leaves against the window, interrupted the midnight quiet of the scene. Refreshed and composed by the judicious treatment I had received, I lay calmly recalling the preceding evening, and wondering what my landlady at the village would think of my being out all night. I might have spared any anxiety on that account, as I afterward learned, as the good Sisters had at once dispatched a messenger to assure her of my safety. In that small place the arrival of a stranger is an event. The seclusion of a convent is favorable to curiosity, and my name, situation, health, and person, were perfectly well-known to all the good Sisters, though I had not chanced to meet one of them. A distant strain of music broke the silence around me. I started, and raising myself in bed undrew the curtains. A figure clothed in white approached the bed, and I recognized at once the face of my yesterday’s companion. “Do not be startled. It is only the Sisters.” She bent her sweet face over me, like an angel watcher. “You have been sitting by me all night, my dear,” said I. “Oh! that is nothing,” she answered, cheerfully. “I like to keep awake in the night.”