one of these that Sister Dolorosa, as has been said, hastened homeward through the falling twilight. When she reached the convent, instead of seeking the Mother Superior as heretofore with news from old Martha, she stole into the shadowy church and knelt for a long time in wordless prayer--wordless, because no petition that she could frame appeared inborn and quieting. An unaccountable remorse gnawed the heart out of language. Her spirit seemed parched, her will was deadened as by a blow. Trained to the most rigorous introspection, she entered within herself and penetrated to the deepest recesses of her mind to ascertain the cause. The bright flame of her conscience thus employed was like the turning of a sunbeam into a darkened chamber to reveal the presence of a floating grain of dust. But nothing could be discovered. It was the undiscovered that rebuked her as it often rebukes us all--the undiscovered evil that has not yet linked itself to conscious transgression. At last she rose with a sigh, and, dejected, left the church. Later, the Mother Superior, noiselessly entering her room, found her sitting at the open window, her hands crossed on the sill, her eyes turned outward into the darkness. "Child, child," she said hurriedly, "how uneasy you have made me! Why are you so late returning?" "I went to the church when I came back, Mother," replied Sister Dolorosa, in a voice singularly low and composed. "I must have returned nearly an hour ago." "But even then it was late." "Yes, Mother; I stopped on the way back to look at the sunset. The clouds looked like cathedrals. And then old Martha kept me. You know it is difficult to get away from old Martha." The Mother Superior laughed slightly, as though her anxiety had been removed. She was a woman of commanding presence, with a face full of dignity and sweetness, but furrowed by lines of difficult resignation. "Yes; I know," she answered. "Old Martha's tongue is like a terrestrial globe; the whole world is mapped out on it, and a little movement of it will show you a continent. How is her rheumatism?" "She said it was no worse," replied Sister Dolorosa absently. The Mother Superior laughed again. "Then it must be better. Rheumatism is always either better or worse." "Yes, Mother." This time the tone caught the Mother Superior's ear. "You seem tired. Was the walk too long?" "I enjoyed the walk, Mother. I do not feel tired." They had been sitting on opposite sides of the room. The Mother Superior now crossed, and, laying her hand softly on Sister Dolorosa's head, pressed it backward and looked fondly down into the upturned eyes. "Something troubles you. What has happened?" There is a tone that goes straight to the heart of women in trouble. If there are tears hidden, they gather in the eyes. If there is any confidence to give, it is given then. A tremor, like that of a child with an unspent sob, passed across Sister Dolorosa's lips, but her eyes were tearless.