I had never seen Priscilla more beautiful. The bloom had returned to her cheek; her form had regained its roundness, and her complexion its richness. Her eyes were serene and tranquil, and her countenance wore a sweet, pure, and peaceful expression. She had no need to fear me at that moment, for I stood, not repelled, but awed, and felt myself in the presence of virtue, not haughty, austere, and repellant, but lovely, chaste, and affectionate; natural, easy, and wholly unconscious of itself. “I am glad to see you, Doctor,” said she, with a sweet smile. “Sit down. I have been hoping that you would call, but I was afraid that you had entirely deserted us.” “You are changed, Priscilla, since I last saw you; and I should think my presence would now be even more disagreeable than then.” “Not at all. I was never more glad to see you in my life, and I never met you with kinder or more pleasant feelings.” I did not understand this speech, and began to draw, in my own mind, certain very foolish conclusions. “Yes,” she resumed, “I wished to see you, and to see you as I now do, alone. It is of no use referring to what we were for so many years to each other; but I wanted to tell you that I did you no little wrong. You were not innocent, but I was the most guilty. We were both miserable; and you, you, my dear friend, are unhappy still.” “I make no complaint. Nobody has heard me whine or whimper over my own lot. If I have suffered, I have done so in silence.” “That may be. But you have not forgotten our sojourn at Rome in the winter of 1848-49?” “Forgotten it? no, and shall not, as long as I live.” “Do you remember an old Franciscan monk, that my husband concealed in our house for some weeks?” “I do.” “He was an old man, nearly fourscore. His head was almost perfectly bald, only a few gray hairs escaped from beneath his _calotte_, and partially shaded his temples; his form, which had been tall and manly, was now bent with years, labors, and mortifications; but his feelings seemed as fresh and playful as those of a child; and the expression of his face was calm, sweet, and affectionate. It was a peculiar expression, not often met with, but like that which, you may remember, we one day remarked in the face of Pius the Ninth. It was an expression of exceeding peace and celestial love, of a pure and holy soul shining through a pure and chaste body. The expression is indescribable, but once seen, can never be forgotten, and seems to be that which Italian painters seek to give to their saints, especially to the Madonna.