On returning to my house I ended a day of agitation by an interview with Virginia. I found her in an abject way, scarcely able to speak, and very unwilling to raise her eyes. She was dressed, and perfectly composed, and said what she had to say in a tone deliberately dry. "I ask your lordship's pardon," she began at once, "for the tempest I raised in your house. I ask it on my knees. I forgot myself; I lost myself. I have not seen your lordship for many months." I begged her to allude to it no more. I myself had been glad to see her, I said. She looked up quickly--only for a moment--and showed a hint of her former fire. "I think that you were--I did think so," she said; then checked herself and was silent. "There is no doubt about it," said I, "therefore let nothing disturb you. Take your time and tell me your news. You have seen--you have heard---" "Yes, yes," she said, "I have seen your Aurelia. She came to our convent a week ago in a chaise and pair." This startled me--a week ago! "I should have told you before if I could," she continued, "but they keep us close, us penitents. I have run away; I could not bear that you should remain ignorant. If they find me they will beat me to death." I assured her of my protection and returned to the subject of Aurelia. How, I asked, had she come? Had she been ill--in distress? "Not at all," said Virginia. "She was elegantly dressed. She was protected by an old woman. She wore a mask and a travelling hood, and went into the nuns' parlour. She asked for a cup of chocolate, which was brought her. I saw her in the chapel at the office." How often had I seen her so--my saint on her knees! "She was on her knees--yes," said Virginia, "but she yawned very much. She did not rise till noon on the next morning." I clasped my friend's hand. "Oh, Virginia, you have seen her!" I cried. "You help me to see her. Is she not perfection?"