“I don’t care to know what they do in the world,” said the old nun to me, when I marvelled that she knew nothing of the worldly events of the day, “we are much happier as we are.” And, after all, it is only habit that makes us crave for news. If I lived far away from the busy hum of men, amid such peace and beauty, I think I should soon grow accustomed to eat my breakfast without the accompaniment of a morning paper. It is possible to school oneself to anything, at least, so I have learnt from my visits to that convent and my friendship with Sister Annunciata, though doubtless a great deal of purposeless self-sacrifice is endured for mistaken enthusiasm. I wonder if Sister Annunciata would have been happier had she not renounced the world, but pursued a sphere of usefulness outside the convent. Perhaps not, after all. Anyhow, her beloved pupils would not have been so happy, for she is their idol. And maybe when, in the little convent chapel, she pours out her virgin soul in solemn organ strains, or when she communes alone with Nature in those sweet, silent groves, and sends her dreams of higher life across the lovely landscape, she knows more peace than could ever have been hers amid the fever and fret of the toiling world of men. [Illustration] _THE CHEERY WOMAN_ Every one loves Mrs. Merrysmile, she is so bright and cheery and lovable, in a holiday way. To be with her is as good as going to the seaside, her breezy talk being as so much ozone. Yes, she is very popular; a kind of female Brighton, that one goes to for the purpose of being mentally braced up with general cheeriness and gaiety and excitement. Other women are our Cromers and our Birchingtons, whither we go for soothing rest and idle dreaming and world-forgetting but Mrs. Merrysmile is our London-by-the-Sea. We dress ourselves in our best to please her, and she keeps us on the alert. If we be dull and out of sorts, she takes it as a personal reproach, for she is so cheery herself that she cannot understand any ailment or misfortune being sufficiently depressing to counteract her influence. In her eyes dulness is an unpardonable offence, while to be invalided is to incur her serious displeasure; if you chance to be either, Mrs. Merrysmile attributes it merely to temper. She will tell you with a charmingly frank affectation that she hates the afflicted, and that the positively poor revolt her; but she professes to entertain the greatest sympathy with enterprising criminals, while the audaciously unscrupulous bankrupt is actually a hero in her eyes—a contrariness which must not be regarded as due to any flaw in her moral attitude, for that is quite above reproach, but simply to that effervescent cheeriness which will not accept defeat in any form. She cannot understand any one being beaten by circumstances, for, as she rather illogically puts it, “Circumstances were made for slaves; I make my own.” She says a