Jane was shown to a room. One or two beds were always kept made up in the Grey Nunnery. Sister Betsey, invariably cheerful and pleasant with all the world, whether they were good or bad, poor or rich, went in with Jane and stayed to help her undress, chatting while she did it. And so the evening came to an end, and the house was at length steeped in quietness. But in the middle of the night an alarm arose. Jane Hallet was ill. Her room was next to that of Sisters Ann and Phoeby they heard her moaning, and hastened to her. "Mercy be good to us!" exclaimed the former, startled out of all equanimity by what she saw and heard. "We must call the Lady Superior. "No, no; not her," corrected the calmer Sister Phoeby. "It is Sister Mildred who must deal with this." So the very unusual expedient was resorted to of disturbing the ex-Superior in her bed, who was so much older than any of them. Sister Mildred dressed herself, and proceeded to Jane's room; and then lost not a minute in despatching a summons for Mr. Parker. He came at once. At the early dawn of morning the wail of a feeble infant was heard within the chamber. A small, sickly infant that could not possibly live. The three Sisters mentioned were alone present. None of the others had been disturbed. "The baptismal basin," whispered the elder lady to Sister Ann. "Make haste." A china basin of great value that had been an heirloom in the Grant family, was brought in, half-filled with water. Sister Mildred rose--she had bent for a minute or two in silent prayer--took the infant in her arms, sprinkled it with the water, and named it "Jane." Laying it down gently, those in the room knelt again. Even Mr. Parker, turning from the bed, put his one knee on a chair. By the time the Grey Ladies generally rose, all signs and symptoms of bustle were over. Nothing remained to tell of what the night had brought forth, save the sick-bed of Jane Hallet, and a dead infant (ushered into the world all too soon), covered reverently over with a sheet in the corner. Breakfast done with, Sister Mildred betook herself up the cliff to Miss Hallet's, her ear-trumpet hanging from her waist-band. It was a painful interview. Never had the good Sister witnessed more pitiable distress. Miss Hallet's share in the pomp and pride of life had not been much, perhaps: but such as it was, it had now passed away from her for ever. "I had far rather have died," moaned the poor lady, in her bitter feeling, her wounded pride. "Could I have died yesterday morning before this dreadful thing was revealed, I should have been comparatively happy. Heaven hears me say it." "It is a sad world," sighed Sister Mildred, fixing the trumpet to her ear: "and it is a dreadful thing for Jane to have been drawn into its wickedness. But we must judge her charitably, Miss Hallet; she is but young."