I glanced miserably at Madame Rayburn. Of all the nuns I loved her best; but I knew her too well to expect any comfort from her lips. Her brown eyes were very cold and bright. "The scene was not spoiled," she said judicially; "it went off remarkably well. But I did think, Agnes, that, although you cannot act, you had too much interest in the play, and too much feeling for the situation, to forget entirely where you were, or what you were about. There, don't cry! It didn't matter much." Don't cry! As well say to the pent-up dam, "Don't overflow!" or to the heaving lava-bed, "Don't leave your comfortable crater!" Already my tears were raining down over my blue tunic and yellow trousers. How could I--poor, inarticulate child--explain that it was because of my absorbing interest in the play, my passionate feeling for the situation, that I was now humbled to the dust, and that my career as an actress was closed? In Retreat We were on the eve of a "spiritual retreat,"--four whole days of silence,--and, in consideration of this fact, were enjoying the unusual indulgence of an hour's recreation after supper. The gravity of the impending change disturbed our spirits, and took away from us--such is the irony of fate--all desire to talk. We were not precisely depressed, although four days of silence, of sermons, of "religious exercises," and examinations of conscience, might seem reasonably depressing. But on the other hand,--happy adjustment of life's burdens,--we should have no lessons to study, no dictations to write, no loathsome arithmetic to fret our peaceful hearts. The absence of French for four whole days was, in itself, enough to sweeten the pious prospect ahead of us. Elizabeth firmly maintained she liked making retreats; but then Elizabeth regarded her soul's perils with a less lively concern than I did. She was not cursed with a speculative temperament. What we all felt, sitting silent and somewhat apprehensive in the lamplight, was a desire to do something outrageous,--something which should justify the plunge we were about to make into penitence and compunction of heart. It was the stirring of the Carnival spirit within us, the same intensely human impulse which makes the excesses of Shrove Tuesday a prelude to the first solemn services of Lent. The trouble with us was that we did not know what to do. Our range of possible iniquities was at all times painfully limited. When I recall it, I am fain to think of a pleasant conceit I once heard from Mr. Royce, concerning the innocence of baby imps. Thanks to the closeness of our guardianship, and to the pure air we breathed, no little circle of azure-winged cherubim were ever more innocent than we; yet there were impish promptings in every guiltless heart. Is it possible to look at those cheerful, snub-nosed angels that circle around Fra Lippo Lippi's madonnas, without speculating upon the superfluity of naughtiness that must be forgiven them day by day?