‘You have not told me what place this is, but I suppose it is some religious home. Well, I am not religious; I scarcely know what religion is. All I ask is a night’s shelter, and then--I will pay you for it, and go away.’ Sister Ursula’s face looked very grave. ‘We never accept payment from those who take shelter here; and you are mistaken--this is not a religious house in the sense you mean. True, we believe in one God and one Redeemer, and our experience teaches us that, for the truly sorrowful and penitent, knowledge of Christ the Saviour is the only preservation.’ The wanderer sighed drearily. ‘You are Roman Catholics, I suppose?’ she said, with a curious indifference. ‘I have heard they are good people.’ ‘We are of all religions,’ returned Sister Ursula, smiling; ‘that is to say, the unfortunate are welcome here, whatever their creed. I myself am a member of the Church of England, but some of our inmates are Catholics, others Dissenters, many, like yourself, of no particular persuasion. We do not insist on these things. Our love and sympathy are for all the world.’ ‘And the house is--not a religious house? What then?’ ‘A refuge for sisters who have fallen, and who repent.’ The wanderer shuddered, for she had read of such places; then, after a moment, she gave a low, faint, bitter laugh. ‘How stupid I was not to understand! And you think I am one of those--those women?’ ‘I think, Jane, that you have a great trouble, whatever it has been; but do not think I am judging you, or wishing to proclaim your fault. Whatever you are, I am no better than yourself. Twenty years ago I left a good husband, and lived in wickedness and shame with another man, who afterwards abandoned me. I have suffered a great deal, though no more than I deserve.’ Raising herself upon her elbow, the woman calling herself Jane Pear tree gazed in amazement at the calm grey sister, who, without a tremor in her voice, coldly proclaimed her own sin to a stranger. ‘I am no better than the worst here,’ said Sister Ursula; ‘but my own experience has helped me to be of service to those who, like myself, have sinned and suffered. Many here are infinitely my superiors insomuch as they have suffered, and been dragged into pollution, through no fault of their own.’ As she spoke, a bell sounded in the distance, and a sound of footsteps was heard upon the staircase beyond the chamber. The door stood open, and Jane Peartree saw numerous female figures, all clad in white caps and aprons, pass quickly by. Several looked in, smiling at Sister Ursula, and cried, ‘Good-night.’ Then four young women, clad like the others, entered that chamber, curtseying and looking curiously at the stranger. ‘It is ten o’clock,’ said Sister Ursula, rising, ‘and bedtime. We breakfast early, at half-past seven, but you are weak and must not attempt to get up. Good-night, Jane.’