"But, madame, my Joseph is not ungrateful: he loves me, and if he has not written now, I am certain it is only because he has nothing to say. One must not be too hard upon young people." "Not too hard, certainly; but we have a right to their submission and respect." "For my part, dear lady, I am satisfied with possessing, as I do, my son's affection." "I congratulate you, Bridget," said her mistress, with a deep sigh. "Alas! I am also a mother, and I ought to be a happy one. Three sons, possessing rank, fortune, glory; yet here I am, forgotten by them, in poverty, and considered importunate if I appeal to them for help. You are happy, Bridget, in having an obedient son--mine are hard and thankless!" "Poor, dear lady, my Joseph loves me so fondly!" "You cut me to the heart, Bridget: you little know what I have suffered. An unhappy mother, I have also been a wretched wife. After having lived unhappily together during several years, my husband died, the victim of an assassin. And whom, think you, did they accuse of instigating his murder? Me! In the presence of my children--ay, at the instance of my eldest son--I was prosecuted for this crime!" "But doubtless, madame, you were acquitted?" "Yes; and had I been a poor woman, without power, rank, or influence, my innocence would have been publicly declared. But having all these advantages, it suited my enemies' purpose to deprive me of them, so they banished me, and left me in the state in which I am!" "Dear mistress!" said the old woman. Marie Marianni hid her face in her handkerchief, and spoke no more during the remainder of the evening. As the servant continued silently to turn her wheel, she revolved in her mind several circumstances connected with the "Old Nun." She had often surprised her reading parchments covered with seals of red wax, which, on Bridget's entrance, her mistress always hurriedly replaced in a small iron box. One night Marie Marianni, while suffering from an attack of fever, cried out in a tone of unutterable horror: "No: I will not see him! Take away yon red robe--that man of blood and murder!" These things troubled the simple mind of poor Bridget, yet she dared not speak of them to her usually haughty and reserved mistress. On the next evening, as they were sitting silently at work, a knock was heard at the door. "Who can it be at this hour?" said Marie Marianni. "I can not think," replied her servant; "'tis now nine o'clock." "Another knock! Go, Bridget, and see who it is, but open the door with precaution." The servant took their solitary lamp in her hand, went to the door. She presently returned, ushering into the room Father Francis, a priest who lived in the city. He was a man of about fifty years old, whose hollow cheeks, sharp features, and piercing eyes wore a sinister and far from hallowed expression. "To what, father, am I indebted for this late visit?" asked the old lady.