On the other hand, if Amabel married Lord Bulmer it would be no more than hundreds of girls did every year at the bidding of their parents. He had been a bad man, no doubt, but not worse than many other young men. He was very much in love with Amabel, that was plain to be seen, and she might have such an influence over him as to reform him. I had heard and read of such things. She would have every thing that the world has to give, and, if she were not interfered with in religious matters, why could she not happy after all? Mr. Cheriton had not written to her, though he might easily have sent a note in Mrs. Thorpe's letter to me. Perhaps what my lady said was true, and he was going to marry some one else. How long I sat pondering these things I do not know, but I was roused by the sound of the noon bell—the Angelus—which was always rung at Highbeck when the lord of the manor was at home. In a moment, a clear vision arose before me. I seemed to be standing once more in the old convent vault, holding fast to Mother Superior's hand, and gazing with awe and dread at that sullen and dismal pool, whose black waters hardly reflected the gleams of the lantern. I smelled the strange damp odor of the vault. I felt the soft and sticky ground under my feet, which seemed to catch and hold me fast, and I heard dear mother's sweet and solemn voice saying— "This is the pit of destruction, and every willful sin brings you nearer to it." The spell was broken. I sprang from my seat and walked rapidly up and down the room. How could I for a moment have dreamed of such a thing? What good would it have done if I had consented. I should not have moved Amabel one hair's breadth, and I should have lost her friendship forever. I should have been doing the devil's own work, to be paid with his wages. No, it never could be, whatever the consequence to her or to me. I could not do this great wickedness and sin against God. The straight path was the only safe path, and, though it might seem to be hedged with briars and built up with stones, I must follow it. Through whatever scenes of trouble it might lead me in this world, the end was sure. Then the tempter would try me on the other side. Was I quite sure which was the right path? Were not children to obey their parents? Would not Amabel have great means of doing good? Was not I myself throwing away chances of usefulness such as I might never have again? Was I not dishonoring my Christian profession by abetting Amabel's disobedience, and suffering a slur to be cast on my own good name? Had I not been taught by my former spiritual guides that falsehood was a venial sin, and might even become a virtue in the cause of religion?