"News, my child," said my uncle. "This very night we are to make for a small seaport—" which he named but I have forgotten—"where a vessel will be awaiting to carry us to Holland. Put up what things are absolutely needful in the smallest compass that you may be ready at any moment." This was news, indeed. I forgot all about my books and every thing else, but the prospect of seeing my aunt and cousins once more. I flew to my room and soon had all my preparations made. I was just finishing my bundles when Mistress Joan entered. "So I am to lose you, dear child," said she, sadly, but in that inexpressible tone of resignation which shows that sorrow has become a part of one's very nature. "Oh, well. It will not be long, and I am glad to have seen you again, though you have never known me all these days that we have been together." "Dear mother, how could I know you?" I asked in amazement. "I never saw you before." "Are you sure?" she asked, looking at me with a smile. I stared at her, and somehow the old face did seem to drop like a mask, and I saw behind it the face of Sister Denys—of Sister Denys who had gone to Dartford in my company, and had disappeared so suddenly and strangely. "It is even so, child," said she, as I called her by name, throwing my arms around her neck. "Oh, Loveday, you can never know how I have longed to speak to you when I have had a glimpse of you from the high grated window of my cell." "But where—but how?" I asked, too all amazed to ask a reasonable question. "Sit down awhile and I will tell you my story," said she. We did sit on the side of the bed, and with her arms still about me, she gave me the outline of her tale—as strange and sad as ever I heard. She had been betrothed to a far-away kinsman, with the full consent of her father. Her mother had died when she was young. But some family quarrel arising, she was forbid ever to see or speak with her lover more, and commanded to marry another person. This last she flatly refused to do, and persisting in her refusal, she was placed in the convent at Dartford. She would not take the veil, however, till she was sent a note as from her lover, saying that he was married. Then she gave way. "But it was a wicked falsehood, whoever penned it," said Denys. "Loveday, do you remember the lame gardener?" "Yes, very well. Why?" The rest was soon told. Denys's bridegroom had found her out at last, and carried her off to some lonely house, she did not rightly know where, first marrying her before a village priest. Here they lived for a few—a very few—happy weeks, meaning as soon as the heat of pursuit was over to go abroad. But alas, one day the poor man ventured forth too far, was seen, tracked, and their concealment found out. The poor young man was killed before his wife's eyes, and Denys was carried back to her convent.