"Well! I do not know about that. I suppose, your Reverence, that the poor people who thronged to hear St. Peter and St. John, were not nearly so learned as Gamaliel, and the other Pharisees; but they were not greatly influenced by them after all." Mrs. Thorpe spoke with such respectful frankness, that it was impossible to be offended with her. The priest glanced at us girls, who with eyes demurely cast down, were listening with all our ears, shrugged his shoulders, offered his snuff-box, and gave the matter up. I often thought of this little scene afterwards, when the relations came to be so changed between these two good people. But all this is by the way, and I have wandered far from the thread of my story, which I fear is but a tangle skein at the best. Amabel and I were sitting, as I said, with a frame between us, finishing a wonderful bit of needle lace, an article for which our house was famous. It was Saturday, and on Monday we were to leave the old house which had been our home so long. We were very silent and sewed with great diligence, for we were desirous of finishing our work, which was destined for some church adornment—I forget what. Presently Sister Angela appeared at the door and mysteriously beckoned to us. "What does she want?" said I, pettishly enough. "We shall have no more than enough daylight to finish our work, and we never can do it by lamplight." However, it was my business to obey, and I followed Amabel who had already risen. Sister Angela led us into a disused storeroom and closed the door. "Are you really going away with that heretic woman, and to that dreadful England?" she asked of Amabel in a whisper. "I suppose so," said Amabel. "My father has sent for us, and we have no choice." "But is your father a Catholic?" asked the sister. "Are you sure?" "I suppose so. Why?" "Well, I do not believe he is—not a good one. Madame Thorpe herself told Sister Agnes that he sometimes went to the English Church." "Perhaps he has a dispensation," said I. "Well, at all events these ladies to whom you are going are heretics. There is no doubt of that." "I suppose not," said Amabel, "but they may not interfere with our religion." "They will. They cannot help it. They will try in every way to pervert you. Besides, you will be deprived of the sacraments—you will be perverted and lose your souls. Oh, my children, don't go." "But we must," said Amabel. "You need not, if you will listen. Suppose you declare to take the veil and remain here. This woman has no force wherewith to take you away, and she will have to go without you. Then if your father should send again, you could be hidden in some place about the building, or sent away to some other house where he would never find you." I looked at Amabel in decided alarm, thinking that if she staid I must stay too, and not disposed to lose the prospect of change, which was growing more and more attractive every day.