Sure enough! A moment later, and the figure in his grey cowl and habit glided slowly past the window, lamp in hand. The unhappy lady gave one terror-stricken, piercing scream, and dropped down flat in the dusty highway. CHAPTER XXIII. THE SECRET PASSAGE. The kitchen at the Grey Nunnery was flagged with slate-coloured stone. A spacious apartment: though, it must be confessed, very barely furnished. A dresser, with its shelves, holding plates and dishes; a few pots and pans; some wooden chairs; and a large deal table in the centre of the room, were the principal features that caught the eye. The time was evening. Three of the Sisters were ironing. Or, to be quite correct, two of them were ironing, and the other, Sister Ann, was attending to the irons at the fire, and to the horse full of fresh ironed clothes, that stood near it. The fire threw its ruddy glow around: upon the plates, of the old common willow pattern, ranged on the dresser-shelves, on the tin dish-covers, hanging against the wall, on the ironing blanket, spread on the large table. One candle only was on the board, for the Sisters were economical, and moreover possessed good eyesight; it was but a common dip in an upright iron candlestick, and required to be snuffed often. Each of the two Sisters, standing side by side, had her ironing stand on her right hand, down on which she clapped the iron continually. They wore their muslin caps, and had on ample brown-holland aprons that completely shielded their grey gowns, with over-sleeves of the same material that reached up nearly to the elbow. The Sisters were enjoying a little friendly dispute: for such things (and sometimes not altogether friendly) will take place in the best regulated communities. Some pea-soup, that had formed a portion of the dinner that day, was not good: each of the three Sisters held her own opinion as to the cause of its defects. "I tell you it was the fault of the peas," said Sister Caroline, who was cook that week and had made the soup. "You can't make good soup with bad peas. It's not the first time they have sent us bad peas from that place." "There's nothing the matter with the peas," dissented fat little Sister Phoeby, who had to stand in her pattens to obtain proper command of the board whenever it was her turn to iron. "I know peas when I look at them, I hope, and I say these are good." "Why, they would not boil at all," retorted Sister Caroline. "That's because you did not soak them long enough." "Soaking or not soaking does not seem to make much difference," said the aspersed Sister, shaking out a muslin kerchief violently before spreading it on the blanket. "The last time it was my week for cooking we had pea-soup twice. I soaked the peas for four-and-twenty hours; and yet the soup was grumbled at! Give me a fresh iron, please, Sister Ann."