The abbess was glad to see them; they broke up the fatal apathy as a storm disperses malaria. She gathered the weeping girl to her bosom, and let her sob and cry there to her heart's content. When the gust of grief had spent itself, Salome lifted her head and dried her eyes, murmuring: "Yes, I loved him! I loved him! but it is past! it is past! I must forget him, henceforth and forever!" "Yes, daughter, you must forget him, for to remember him would be a grievous sin. And you must forgive him, though he meditated against you the deepest wrong," said the abbess, solemnly. "I will try to forgive the wrong-doer and forget the wrong, but oh! mother, mother, it will be very hard to overlive it! Oh, I hope, I hope, if it be Heaven's will, that I shall not have to live very long," said Salome, with a heavy sigh. "That is the way I felt in the first bitterness of my sorrow: but the feeling passed away in duty-doing. And now, although I know that in the next life every need and aspiration of the soul will be fulfilled, yet I find such peace and joy here, that I am willing, yes and glad, to live in this world as long as my Lord has any work for me to do in his vineyard." "Tell me what I ought to do, and I will try to do it," said Salome, with another deep sigh; for her very breathing was sighing now. "You know that this is Saturday, the last Saturday before Christmas," said the abbess. "Is it? I did not know, I have taken no note of time." "And to-morrow is Sunday, the last Sunday before Christmas." "Yes, of course." "Daughter, you have not been to chapel once since your arrival among us." "Ah, no! I came from the infirmary here, and I have not left this room to go anywhere since!" sighed Salome. "That is not because you are not able to do so, but because you are not willing. You have allowed yourself to sink into a sinful and dangerous lethargy of mind and body in which you have brooded morbidly over your afflictions. You must do so no longer. You must rouse yourself from this moment. You must go with us to-night to vespers. To-morrow morning you will attend high mass. A fellow-countryman of yours, Father F----, an Oratorian priest from Norwood, England, will preach. He will do you good. Since the days of St. John, the beloved disciple, no wiser, more loving, or more eloquent soul ever spoke to sinners," said the abbess. "But--coming from England!--If he should recognize me!" exclaimed Salome. "Why, do you know him?" "Oh, no, not at all; but then there are sometimes people with whom we have no sort of acquaintance, who yet know us by sight from seeing us in public places, or meeting us on public occasions." "That is very true, my child; but you need have no fear of being recognized by the officiating priest to-morrow, whoever he may be, for you will sit with us behind the screen." "Thanks, dear mother; I will go with you this very evening."