Two hours and a half each day we spent with a priest, whom we were taught to call Father Darity (I do not know as I spell this and other names correctly, but I give it to the reader as it sounded to my ear). He appeared to take great pleasure in learning us to repeat the prayers and catechism required by Priest Dow. He also gave us a variety of instructions in other things, enjoining in particular the most absolute obedience and perfect silence. He assured us that if we dared to disobey him in the least particular, he should know it, even if he was not present with us at the time. He said he knew all our thoughts, words, and actions; and if we did not obey, he should "EAT US WITH A GRAIN OF SALT." I presume my reader will smile at this, and exclaim, "How absurd!" Yes, to you it is absurd; but to the mind of a child who placed the utmost confidence in his veracity, it was an evidence that he was invested with supernatural powers. For myself I believed every word he said, and nothing would have tempted me to disobey him. Perfect obedience he considered the highest attainment, and, to secure this, the greatest of all virtues, no means were thought too severe. We were frightened and punished in every possible way. But, though Father Darity acted on the one great principle with the Romanists, that the "end sanctifies the means," he was in general a much kinder man than Priest Dow. He urged us on with our catechism as fast as possible, telling us, as a motive to greater diligence, that the bishop was soon to visit us, and that we could not be admitted to his presence until we had our prayers and catechism perfectly. One day, when we were in the yard at play, I told one of the little girls that I did not like to live there; that I did not like one of the people in the house; that I wished to return to my father, and I should tell him so the first time he came to see me. "Then you like to live with your father?" said she. I told her I did, for then I could do as I pleased, without the fear of punishment. She said that she did not like to live there any better than I did. I asked her why she did not go away, if she disliked to stay. She replied, "I should like to go away well enough, if I had any friends to go to; but my father and mother are both dead, and I have no home but this; so you see I must stay here if they wish me to; but there is one consolation; if we are good girls, and try to do right, they will be kind to us." I made no further remark; but the moment we returned to the house she told the Superior what I said, taking good care not to repeat her own expressions, and leaving the Superior to infer that she had made no reply.