The Grey Ladies held fête sometimes, as well as the outside world; and it was gay this evening in the Grey Nunnery. The Sisters were en soirée: no guests, however, were present; only themselves. The occasion prompting it was the return of Sister Mildred: Sister Mildred grown young again, as she laughingly told them, so sprightly did she feel in her renewed health and strength. She had brought some treasures back with her: contributed by the kind relatives with whom she had been staying. A basket of luscious hot-house grapes; a large, rich, home-made plum-cake; and two bottles of cowslip wine. These good things had been set out on the table of the parlour, and the whole of the Ladies sat round, listening to Sister Mildred's glowing accounts of her visit and of its pleasant doings. "Why, my dears, they would fain have kept me till next year," she rejoined in answer to a remark: and her hearing was for the time so much improved that the small ear-trumpet, hanging by a ribbon from her waist, was scarcely ever taken up. "I had a battle, I assure you, to get away. My cousin has two charming little girls with her, her grandchildren, and the little mites hid the key of my box, so that it should not be packed; and they cried bitterly when I was ready to start." "You will be sorry, now, that you have resigned the superiorship to me," whispered Mary Ursula, taking up the trumpet to speak. "I will give it back to you." "Ah, my dear, no. I would not be head again for the world. I am better, as you see, thanks to our merciful Father in heaven; so much better that I can hardly believe it to be myself; but to keep well I must have no care or trouble. I shall be of less use here now than any of you." "You will be of every use, dear Sister Mildred, if only to help me with counsel," returned Mary. "Oh, it is pleasant to be at home again," resumed the elder lady, her face beaming from under its crisp muslin cap. "The sojourn with my relatives has been delightful; but, after all, there's no place like home. And you must give me an account, dear Sisters of all that has occurred during my absence. See to the thief in the candle!" "There's not very-much to relate, I think," observed Sister Betsey, as she attended to the thief. "We had an adventure here, though, one night. Tom Dance's son went on to the chapel ruins to shoot a sea-bird for somebody at Stilborough, and his pistol exploded, and wounded him dreadfully. He came crawling here to be taken in." "What do you say, dear?" asked Sister Mildred, her hand to her ear. "Tom Dance brought a sea-bird here?" "No. His son, young Dance----" But Sister Betsey's explanation was cut short by a loud, peremptory ring at the house-bell. Rings at that time of the evening, for it was close upon nine o'clock, generally betokened notice of illness or accident. Sister Ann hastened to the door, and the others held their breath.