wish to propitiate them, I rose from my chair--then gasping, I leant on it for support. I said, “My God! what is all this terrible preparation for? Of what am I guilty? Why am I summoned by this warning voice so often, whose warnings are only so many mysterious threatenings? Why am I not told of my offence?” “The four monks, who had never spoken or lifted up their heads till that moment, now directed their livid eyes at me, and repeated, all together, in a voice that seemed to issue from the bottom of a sepulchre, “Your crime is--” The Superior gave them a signal to be silent, and this interruption increased my consternation. It is certain, that when we are conscious of guilt, we always suspect that a greater degree of it will be ascribed to us by others. Their consciences avenge the palliations of our own, by the most horrible exaggerations. I did not know of what crime they might be disposed to accuse me; and already I felt the accusation of my clandestine correspondence as dust in the balance of their resentment. I had heard the crimes of convents were sometimes unutterably atrocious; and I felt as anxious now for a distinct charge to be preferred against me, as I had a few moments before to evade it. These indefinite fears were soon exchanged for real ones, as the Superior proposed his questions. “You have procured a large quantity of paper--how did you employ it?” I recovered myself, and said, “As I ought to do.” “How, in unburdening your conscience?” “Yes, in unburdening my conscience.” “That is false; the greatest sinner on earth could not have blotted so many pages with the record of his crimes.” “I have often been told in the convent, I _was_ the greatest sinner on earth.” “You equivocate again, and convert your ambiguities into reproaches--this will not do--you must answer plainly: For what purpose did you procure so much paper, and how have you employed it?” “I have told you already.” “It was, then, employed in your confession?”--I was silent, but bowed assentingly.--“You can, then, shew us the proofs of your application to your duties. Where is the manuscript that contains your confession?” I blushed and hesitated, as I showed about half-a-dozen blotted and scrawled pages as my confession. It was ridiculous. It did not occupy more than a tenth part of the paper which I had received. “And this is your confession?” “It is.” “And you dare to say that you have employed all the paper entrusted to you for that purpose.”--I was silent. “Wretch!” said the Superior, losing all patience, “disclose instantly for what purpose you have employed the paper granted you. Acknowledge instantly that it was for some purpose contrary to the interests of this house.”--At these words I was roused. I saw again the cloven foot of interest peeping from beneath the monastic garb. I answered, “Why am I suspected if _you_ are not guilty? What could I accuse you of? What could I complain of if there were no cause? Your own consciences must answer