"You are a good and obedient child. Receive my benediction," said the mother-superior, rising. Salome bent her head, and the abbess solemnly blessed her, and then withdrew from the room. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE SOUL'S STRUGGLE. That same evening, while the vesper bells were ringing, Salome dressed herself, and, leaning on the arm of the mother-superior headed the procession of the sisterhood as they marched to the chapel and took their seats in the recess behind the screen, which was so cunningly devised, that, while it afforded the nuns a full view of the altar, the priests, the interior of the pews and the whole congregation, it effectually concealed the forms and faces of the sisterhood seated within it. Father Francois, the confessor of the convent, officiated at the altar. A rustic congregation of the faithful filled the pews in the body of the church. They came from farm-houses and villages in the immediate neighborhood of the convent. The vesper hymn was raised by the nuns. Salome joined in singing it. She had a rich, sweet, clear soprano voice. Many were the heads in the rustic assemblage that turned to listen to the new singer in the nuns' choir. Salome saw them, and shrank back as if she herself could have been seen, though she was quite invisible to them, for the screen, which was transparent to her eyes, was impenetrable to theirs. She remembered this, at length, and recovered her composure. The sweet vesper service soothed her soul, and when it was over, and the benediction was given, the "peace that passeth all understanding" descended upon her troubled spirit. She left the chapel, leaning on the mother-superior's arm. When she reached her room door she kissed the lady's hand in bidding her good-night. "This has done you good, my daughter," said the abbess, gently. "It has done me good. Thanks for your wise counsel, holy mother. I will follow it still. I will go again tomorrow. Bless me, my mother," said Salome, bowing her head before the abbess, who blessed her again, and then softly withdrew. Salome entered her room and retired to rest, and slept more calmly than she had done for many days and nights. She arose on Sunday morning refreshed; but it seemed as if her stony apathy had passed off, only to leave her more keenly sensitive to her cause of grief; for as she dressed herself, a flood of tender memories overflowed her soul, and she threw herself, weeping freely, on her cot. In this condition she was found by the abbess, who was pleased to see her weep, knowing that the keenness of sorrow is much softened by tears. She sat down in silence by the cot, and waited until the paroxysm was past. "Good mother, I could not help it," said Salome, with a last convulsive sob, as she wiped her eyes, and arose. "Nor did I wish you to do so. Thank the Lord for the gift of tears. Have you had breakfast, my daughter?"