"My saint herself lived to lay her honored father's head in the grave, and to see every one of his children doing well in all ways, and then she went home to her well-earned rest. Yes, indeed, my Mary, my more than mother!—Thou dost rest from thy labors, and thy works do follow thee!" "That is my saint, girls," said Mrs. Thorpe, after a little pause. "How do you like her?" "I think she was lovely!" said Amabel, with enthusiasm. "And all the better because she did not choose her own work. It was just as if God himself set her a task, was it not?" "Yes, my dear Mrs. Amabel, God sets us all tasks, if we would but see them." "And was this lady your sister?" I asked. "Yes, my dear, my oldest sister; and if I ever have done any good in this world, it is owing to her. I will show you her picture at home. A traveling artist drew it for us. But it was odd you should never have known of this cell," said Mrs. Thorpe, returning to Amabel's tale. "Does it not open to the church now?" "No; I believe she was built up in it after she died. But there are a great many places about our house that we never saw." "That is what I don't like—I mean all that mystery!" said Mrs. Thorpe. "I like things to be open and above board. Not that I mean to say one word about the ladies in the house we have left, who have been most kind, I am sure. I am only thinking what chances all this concealment gives to wicked or tyrannical persons. Suppose a nun misbehaves, or is thought to do so. She disappears, and word goes that she is sick. By and by it is said that she is dead. But who knows what has become of her?" "But such things would never happen in a religious house," said I, half offended. "My dear, human nature is a poor creature, as my dear father used to say, when he could find no other excuse for somebody. It is not fit to be trusted with arbitrary power." "The Jesuits and the archbishop of Paris were religious persons when they persecuted Mother Angelique and the other people at Port Royal," said Amabel, who had heard that great lady's story many a time from Mother Perpetua; "but I am sure, Mrs. Thorpe, no one was ever persecuted in our house." "I dare say not, my dear; I was only speaking of what might be." This discussion had thoroughly diverted us, and made us forget to turn back for that last look we had promised ourselves. It was just as well, for such last looks are of no particular use. We now began to see so many wonders, and these wonders increased upon us so fast as we drew near the city that we were silent from very amazement, and could only use our eyes. The crowded ways and marketplaces, the shops, the soldiers marching through the streets, the universal bustle of a seaport town—were enough to surprise and bewilder any country-bred person, much more two little cage-birds like ourselves, who had never in all our lives seen a dozen strange faces.