The service ended; the great doors opened, and the warm, golden, Roman evening rushed into the church. Irene turned her steps homewards, enjoying the blue sky, and the gay good-natured Sunday crowd that filled the streets. Somewhere in the distance a military band was playing, the air was full of laughter and merriment. Pretty children, in their best frocks, and with little bare legs, were frolicking about to the evident delight of their parents, who watched them with tender caressing smiles. “How glorious, how beautiful life is!” thought Irene, still under the impression of the singing. But having traversed two streets and turned into the Piazza Venezia, she suddenly stopped short, horror-struck. “But they did not sing about earthly love _at all_!” she exclaimed to herself in complete confusion. “How could such thoughts ever be awakened by their prayers? How did it happen? How came I to fall into such an error?” Irene was both amazed and ashamed, and decided to say nothing to Père Etienne about her impressions of the service. This, however, was not as easy as it seemed. The wily priest cross-examined her severely, and of course, Irene ended by admitting everything. Père Etienne frowned. He knew all about this tragic “Demon,” singing so passionately in the desert—he had met him twice in the corridor, on the way to Irene’s room! “You are far too impressionable,” he observed severely, “and music evidently irritates your nerves. You will do better to attend the lectures of Monsignor Berra, in the convent of the Ursulines.” Irene agreed, and, on the appointed day, knocked at the small door of the convent in the Via Flavia. The sister who answered her knock glanced at the pass ticket in Irene’s hand, and led her through a quadrangle with slim Gothic columns. Irene was astonished at the silence. Only a few steps away was the crowded, noisy street—yet here reigned the stillness of the grave. She raised the leather curtain with which the doors of churches in Rome are always covered during the winter, and found herself in a cold, damp, but very elegant chapel, filled with ladies, young girls, and children. Men were not admitted here—only two abbots were modestly hiding themselves in a corner. The nuns, true to their traditions, did not show themselves at all, but from somewhere on high came the sound of the organ, while the fresh young voices of the convent school children sang the prayers. “Well,” thought Irene with a smile, “at least this singing will not lead me into temptation!” After a short service, Monsignor Berra, a handsome, clever old man, entered the pulpit. Expressing himself in that most elegant French that was once spoken at the French Court, but that is now forgotten by all except, perhaps, the clergy, he began a lecture on Esther.