Her eyes were of the clearest and darkest hazel, and full of 'soul's light,' imparted to her face a world of expression; but what the colour of her hair (or what remained of it) was, it would be impossible to say, as every vestige of it was closely hidden by her tightly-fitting white wimple. 'And I have been here for days and nights ill,' said Alison, faintly, as consciousness came fully back to her, and Lisette, while propping her pretty head upon her own breast, gave her soothing drink. 'Oh, what a trouble I must have been to you!' 'No trouble at all, ma sœur,' replied the other, letting her head tenderly down on the pillow, and smoothing out the latter. 'So long, so long, and without papa being informed,' exclaimed Alison, as tears of dismay started to her eyes. 'Child, we know not his name--his address--even of his existence.' Alison sighed deeply. She was too prostrate in body and even mind to regard anything as very extraordinary, even her unusual surroundings in the convent; yet she longed for her father to come to her, or to have tidings of him; of aught else she said nothing. 'Oh, if I should die without seeing papa again!' said she, wringing her hands. 'One can die but once,' said Sister Lisette, placidly. 'You are too strong and too young to die, though those who die are sometimes better off than those who are left in the world. You, at least, have all your life to look forward to.' 'And you?' 'Mine is ended.' 'Ended!' 'In the world at least, as I shall go back to it no more.' Seeing that Alison was in a fever of impatience to hear tidings of her father, Sister Lisette, on obtaining his name and address at the Hôtel St. Antoine, at once sent a messenger with that letter which, as we have described, so greatly startled and agitated the old man; and Alison remained in a fever of impatience, awaiting the return of that messenger who might perhaps bring her very crushing tidings. 'Dearest papa will not lose a moment in coming to me,' she murmured, partly to her nurse and partly to herself; but how, if he were too weak to come or in despair at her loss had left Antwerp, or perhaps--oh Heavens!--have sunk under it, and--died! And to see him again would be, of course, to see that odious Lord Cadbury; and so she tormented herself till the messenger returned with tidings that her father was well and had been out and about for days, despairingly searching for her, and would be with her very soon. 'Oh, thank God for that!' said Alison, and a hot shower of joyful tears relieved her; and now she started up at every sound, and inquired again and again the exact distance between the Beguinage and the Marche aux Souliers. 'Ma sœur Alison, you must not speak so much and be so impatient,' said the Beguine, holding up a finger. 'What--you know my name?' 'Yes, it is mine also.' 'But how?'