The garden was beautiful. It lay on a sunny slope facing the south, and was well sheltered from the cruel winds which sometimes visit that part of the country. I never saw elsewhere such banks of violets and thickets of roses and jasmine. There were old, old orange trees, all gnarled and rough, but bearing the sweetest of thin-skinned fruit. There were tuberoses and great bushes of lavender and rosemary, and more flowers than I can remember, and caper plants growing in the old ruined brickwork, fragments of which peeped everywhere, and gay Lent lilies, and clumps of tall white ones, which we used to consider specially sacred to the Virgin. Oh, I cannot pretend to enumerate the charms of that garden. There was a fish-pond, which we little ones were forbidden to approach, and a lovely little brook full of minnows and other interesting creatures, where we used to get into disgrace by dabbling and wetting our feet and our pinafores. Here were our own gardens, where we each had a currant bush, and where we raised flowers and salads, and now and then a melon. Happy she whose salad or melon was considered good enough for the Reverend Mother's table. I don't believe the dear lady was very fond of melons, but she used to accept them graciously, and ceremoniously ask our permission, which of course we always gave, to divide the treat with the other mothers and sisters. I must not forget the potage, or herb garden, where grew salads and pulse of many sorts, endive and parsley, sweet herbs and garlic, beside such grand cucumbers, great gourds and melons, and such scarlet love apples as one never sees in England. I don't wonder that the children of Israel hankered after such things in the midst of the desert. I should like to see a roasted gourd myself once more. Here was a great range of bee-hives, which were the special care of Sister Baptista. Beyond the garden were the olive orchard and the fields belonging to the house, where we were never allowed to go by ourselves. Here were pastured our three cows, whose produce made a good part of our living. Just outside the pasture lived an old laboring man, who, with his wife and his lame son, did all the work of the farm which was too hard for the sisters. We were, for some reason or other, dreadfully afraid of this old man, though he never did anything worse than make faces at us, which I don't think he could help, and laugh a queer shrill laugh when we ran away from him. Beyond these fields was a valley, through which ran a stream, usually nearly dry in summer, though it was a hoarse roaring torrent in winter. Beyond this rose high rather barren hills. On the other side of the house was a narrow court, also paved, where we never set foot, and a high wall spiked on the top. The house had no windows on the lower floor on this side, but there were several on the floor above.