I do wish, if so great a favour could possibly be vouchsafed to me, that I might speak to our Lord just once. He has ere this held converse with the holy saints. Of course I am not holy, nor a saint, nor in the least merit any such grace from Him: but I need it more than those who merit it. Oh, if I could know,--once, certainly, and for ever--whether it is earthly, and carnal, and wicked, as people say it is, for me to grieve over that lost love of mine! Sister Ismania says it is all folly and imagination on my part, because, having been parted when we were only six years old, I cannot possibly (she says) feel any real, womanly love for him. But I do not see why it must be grown-up to be real. And I never knew any thing better or more real. It may not be like what others have, but it was all I had. I wish sometimes that I knew if he still lives, and whether that other wife lives to whom I suppose somebody must have married him after I was thrust in here. I cannot feel as if he did not still, somehow, belong to me. If I only knew whether it was wrong! I have been appointed mistress of the work-room, and I ought to keep it in order. How I can ever do it, I cannot think. I shall never be able to chide the Sisters like the other Mothers: and to have them coming up to me, when they are chidden, and kissing the floor at my feet--I do not know how I can stand it. I am sure it will give me a dreadful feeling. However, I hope nothing will ever happen of that kind, for a long, long while. What is the good of hoping any thing? Mother Gaillarde says that hopes, promises, and pie-crust are made to be broken. Certainly hopes seem to be. After all my wishes, if something did not happen the very first day! When I got down to the work-room, what should I find but Sisters Roberga and Philippa having a violent quarrel. They were not only breaking the rule of silence, which in itself was bad enough, but they were calling each other all manner of names. I was astonished those two should quarrel, for they have always been such friends that they had to be constantly reminded of the prohibition of particular friendships among the religious: but when they did, it reminded me of the adage that vernage makes the best vinegar. Sister Isabel cast an imploring look at me, as I entered, which seemed to say, "Do stop them!" and I had not a notion how to set about it, except by saying-- "My dear Sisters, our rule enjoins silence." On my saying this (which I did with much reluctance and some trembling) both of them turned round and appealed to me. "She promised to vote for me, and she did not!" cried Sister Roberga. "I did!" said Sister Philippa. "I kept my word." "There was only one vote for me," answered Sister Roberga. "Well, and I gave it," replied Sister Philippa. "You couldn't have done! There must have been more than one." "Why should there?" "I know there was." "How do you know?" "I do know."