Sister Madeline was not at all the ideal sister, being tall and dark, and with nothing peculiarly devotional or pensive in her cast of feature. Her face was a fine, earnest one. Her movements were full of energy and decision, though not quick or sharp. The whole impression left was that of one by nature far from humility, tenderness, devotion; but, by the force of a magnificent faith, made passionately humble, devout from the very heart, more than humanly compassionate and tender. I never felt toward her as if she were "born so"--but as if she were rescued from the world by some great effort or experience; as if it were all "made ground," reclaimed from nature by infinite patience and incessant labor. She lived the life of an angel upon the earth. I never saw her, by look, by word, or tone, transgress the least of the commandments, so wonderful was the curb she held over all her human feelings. Nor was this perfection attained by a sudden and grand sacrifice; the consecration of herself to the religious life was not the "single step 'twixt earth and heaven," but it was attained by daily and hourly study--by the practice of a hundred self-denials--by the most accurate science of spiritual progress. Doubtless, saints can be made in other ways, but this is one way they can be made, starting with a sincere intention to serve God. At least, so I believe, from knowing Sister Madeline. She made a great change in my life, and I owe her a great deal. It is not strange I feel enthusiasm for her. I cannot bear to think what my coming back to life would have been without her. Of the alarming nature of my illness, I only know that there were several days when Richard never left the house, but waited, hour after hour, in the library below, for the news of my condition, and when even Uncle Leonard came home in the middle of the day, and walked about the house, silent and unapproachable. One night--how well I remember it! I had been convalescent, I do not know how long; I had passed the childish state of interest in my _bouilli_, and fretfulness about my _peignoir_; my mind had begun to regain its ordinary power, and with the first efforts of memory and thought had come fearful depression and despondency. I was so weak, physically, that I could not fight against this in the least. Sister Madeline came to my bedside, and found me in an agony of weeping. It was not an easy matter to gain my confidence, for I thought she knew nothing of me, and I was not equal to the mental effort of explaining myself; she was only associated with my illness. But at last she made me understand that she was not ignorant of a great deal that troubled me. "Who has told you?" I said, my heart hardening itself against Richard, who could have spoken of my trouble to a stranger. "You, yourself," she answered me. "I have raved?" I said. "Yes." "And who has heard me?" "No one else. I sent every one else from the room whenever your delirium became intelligible."