"Not but that we should have been glad to help you, if we could," put in Sister Grizzel, with a pleasant smile. Madame Guise rose, stifling a sigh. She saw exactly how it was--that the Grey Nunnery was about the last place able to assist her. In leaving the parlour, she met a lady, young and stately, who was entering it; one of wondrous beauty, tall, majestic, of gracious manner and presence. "Our Superior, Sister Mary Ursula," said Sister Grizzel. And Madame Guise knew that it was her husband's cousin--for Miss Castlemaine had joined the Sisterhood some days past. She wore the clear muslin cap over her luxuriant hair, but not the Grey habit, for she had not put aside the mourning for her father. In the magnificent dark eyes, in the bright complexion and in the beautiful features, Madame Guise saw the likeness to her husband and to the rest of the Castlemaines. Sister Mary Ursula bowed and said a few gracious words: Madame Guise responded with one of her elaborate French curtseys, and passed onwards through the gate. "So that hope has failed!" she thought, as she crossed over to the inn. "I might have known it would: with so many accomplished ladies among themselves, the Sisters cannot want other people's aid." Buried in thought, perplexed as to what her future course should be, Madame Guise did not go at once indoors, but sat down on the bench outside the house. The window of the sitting-room, occupied by John Bent and his wife, stood open--for Mrs. Bent liked plenty of fresh air--and people were talking inside. On that same bench had sat more than once her unfortunate husband, looking at the water as she was looking, at the fishermen collected on the beach, at the boats out at sea, their white sails at rest in the calm of the sunshiny day. She was mentally questioning what else she could try, now that her mission to the Grey Sisters had failed, and wondering how little she and Marie could live upon, if she got nothing to do. Gradually the talking became clearer to her ear. She heard the landlady's voice and another voice: not John Bent's, but the young, free, ready voice of a gentleman. It was in truth Harry Castlemaine's; who, passing the inn, had turned in for a gossip. "It seems to me like a great sacrifice, Mr. Harry," were the first distinct words that fell on Madame Guise's ear. "The Grey Ladies are very good and noble; next door to angels, I'm sure, when folks are sick; but it is not the right life for Miss Castlemaine to take to." "We told her so until we were tired of telling it," returned Harry Castlemaine. "It has cut up my father grievously. We will drop the subject, Mrs. Bent: I cannot speak of it with patience yet. How is the sick child getting on?" "As well as can be, sir. She is just now upstairs in her midday sleep. Talking of children, though," broke off Mrs. Bent, "what is this mishap that has happened to Miss Flora? We hear she met with some accident yesterday."