The girl rose and curtsied as the newcomer advanced to the bedside. ‘You are better now?’ The wanderer looked up wildly, scrutinising the kind thoughtful face which was bending over her. ‘Where am I?’ she cried again. ‘What place is this?’ ‘You are among friends,’ was the quiet reply. ‘In the hospital? Have I been ill?’ ‘You were faint and weak when they brought you in, and afterwards you fell into a sleep.’ ‘Yes, I remember--but this place, and you? I do not know you.’ ‘I am Sister Ursula. Perhaps you have heard my name?’ ‘No.’ ‘Nor the name of this place--Mount Eden? 5 ‘No! no!5 cried the wanderer, in surprise. ‘You are welcome all the same; but, before we talk any more, let Barbara’--here Barbara, as the young girl was called, curtsied--‘bring you some warm soup, or some tea and toast. I am sure you are weak from want of food.’ At first the invalid, confused and to some extent alarmed by her position, refused to take any sustenance, but Sister Ursula, with gentle firmness, at last persuaded her to drink some warm tea and eat a little dry toast. When she had done so, and Barbara, at a signal from her superior, had retired, Sister Ursula sat quietly down by the bedside. ‘And now, may I ask you a few questions about yourself? Do not think I speak from mere curiosity, and do not answer anything unless you please. In the first place, am I right in guessing that you are in trouble?’ ‘Yes.’ As she answered, almost under her breath, the wanderer kept her large, wistful, watchful eyes fixed, with strange intensity, on the Sister’s face. ‘Next, may I ask your name?’ There was a long pause, but at last, in the same low tone, the answer came-- ‘Jane Peartree.’ ‘Well, Jane (may I call you Jane? it is our habit in this place to call each other by the Christian name), I do not wish to inquire into your history, until you choose to tell me it, or any portion of it. What I wish you to do is to regard me and all here as friends and sufferers like yourself, sisters in sorrow and in heavenly hope. You will rest here, certain of help and sympathy, until such a time as you feel strong enough to face the world again. By-the-bye, are you a Londoner?’ ‘No; I was born in the country.’ ‘And you have lived---’ ‘Do not ask me! I cannot tell!’ And as she spoke, she turned her face upon the pillow, crying. ‘You shall tell me nothing,’ said the lady softly, ‘until you wish it of your own freewill. I can see that you have had sorrow, great sorrow; and that, unlike so many who come here, your speech is gentle, and your manner that of a lady. Take courage! Whatever your offence has been, whatever pain you have undergone, you are as safe now as a little child on its mother’s breast--no one can tempt you, no one can harm you, here.’ The wanderer turned her face again, and looked long and wistfully at the Sister; then she sighed deeply, while her tears still fell.