Clara was an early riser. Every morning, in company with Esha, she took a promenade in the little garden in the rear of the house. One morning as they were thus engaged, and Clara was noticing the indications of spring among the early buds and blossoms (though it was yet March), a woman, newly employed as a seamstress in the family, called out from the kitchen window, “O Esha! Come quick! Black Susy is trying to catch Minnie, to kill her for stealing cream.” Minnie was a favorite cat, petted by Madame Volney. “Don’t let her do it, Esha!” exclaimed Clara. “Run quick, and prevent it!” Esha ran. But no sooner had she disappeared over the threshold than Clara, who stood admiring an almond-tree in full bloom, felt a hood thrown over her face from behind, while both her hands were seized to prevent resistance. The hood was so strongly saturated with chloroform, that almost before she could utter a cry she was insensible. When Clara returned to consciousness, she found herself lying on a bed in a large and elegant apartment. The rich Parisian furniture, the Turkish carpet, and the amber-colored silk curtains told of wealth and sumptuous tastes. Her first movement was to feel for the little dagger which she carried in a sheath in a hidden pocket. She found it was safe. The windows were open, and the pleasant morning breeze came in soft and cool. As she raised herself on her elbow and looked about, a woman wearing the white starched linen bonnet of a Sister of Charity rose from a chair and stood before her. The face of this woman had a tender and serious expression, but the head showed a deficiency in the intellectual regions. Indeed, Sister Agatha was at once a saint and a simpleton; credulous as a child, though pious as Ignatius himself. She was not in truth a recognized member of the intelligent order whose garb she wore. She had been rejected because of those very traits she now revealed; but being regarded as harmless, she was suffered to play the Sister on her own account, procuring alms from the charitable, and often using them discreetly. Having called at Semmes’s office on a begging visit, he had recognized in her a fitting tool, and had secured her confidence by a liberal contribution and an affectation of rare piety. “How do you feel now, my dear?” asked Agatha. “What has happened?” said Clara, trying to recall the circumstances which had led to her present position. “Who are you? Where’s Esha? Why is not Josephine here?” “There! don’t get excited,” said the sister. “Your poor brain has been in a whirl,—that’s all.” “Please tell me who you are, and why I am here, and what has happened.” “I am Sister Agatha. I have been engaged by Mr. Semmes to take care of you. What has happened is,—you have had one of your bad turns, that’s all.” Clara pondered the past silently for a full minute; then, turning to the woman, said: “You would not knowingly do a bad act. I get that assurance from your face. Have they told you I was insane?”