“She did not return?” she asked. “Then”-- “She is dead,” I whispered. After all, I believed it was true; that she could not have survived the wreck of all things which my abduction must have meant to her. The gentlewoman gave a gasp of pity and self-rebuke, and enfolded me in her arms. “Forgive me!” she cried. “O, I was cruel! The poor lost lamb! So white, so helpless, so delivered to the wolves! But”--she bethought herself--“where was this?-- And your unhappy father?” “He had taken me to Brighthelmston,” I stammered; “he was not of our religion--of any. He made me dance before the pretty prince, and would have given me to him, but that the sweep whom he fought stole me out of revenge first.” The priest and the lady exchanged looks. “Am I justified?” she asked. “The peril, the iniquity! O, surely, Father--surely!” He shrugged his shoulders. “Write to the Magdalens first,” said he, “and verify it.” She thought a little, then addressed me again. “And if I do, would you like to make your home here in the meantime, Diana?” The strain had been very severe. I fell on my knees before her, weeping. I knew, from what my governess had once told me, that les Madelonnettes must confirm the worst of my story. “O, madam,” I cried, “if you would train me in goodness and piety!” She kissed me, then looked up, her immobile face quite transfigured. “Perhaps,” she thrilled, “some day, perhaps some day to fill the place and vindicate the vows of the poor weak apostate who gave you life!” “Write to the Magdalens,” growled Father Pope. VII. I AM PUT AWAY IN CAMPHOR I cannot hold Lady Sophia altogether irresponsible for the loss to the Calendar of a very promising saint. I entered Wellcot enthusiastic to devote the rest of my days to the practices of piety and self-renunciation, and I was moved to this resolve not least by the example my benefactress seemed to offer me of the most perfect detachment from the world. Alas! I was too soon to realise how the chaste aloofness of a mind may mean only a vanity so sensitive, and an irritability so nervous, as for ever to be on their defence against unwarranted approaches. I had thought her serenely above the littlenesses of life; and all the time she only sat on a level with them, but apart, in alarm lest her moral distinction should be held to justify familiarities with her social. The folded wings of piety may be used to conceal some uncelestial humours. I had supposed, at least, that passion was the remotest from her temperament; and there even I was wrong, as you shall learn.