us but love-sick sister Ingrid, this Vadstene's Heloise, writes
to her heart's beloved, Axel Nilsun--for the chronicles have preserved
it for us:--

"Broderne og Systarne leka paa Spil, drikke Vin och dansa med
hvarandra i Tradgarden!"

(The brothers and sisters amuse themselves in play, drink wine and
dance with one another in the garden).

These words may explain to us the history of the pear-tree: one is led
to think of the orgies of the nun-phantoms in "Robert le Diable," the
daughters of sin on consecrated ground. But "judge not, lest ye be
judged," said the purest and best of men that was born of woman. We
will read Sister Ingrid's letter, sent secretly to him she truly
loved. In it lies the history of many, clear and human to us:--

"Jag djerfues for ingen utan for dig allena bekaenna, att jag formar
ilia anda mit Ave Maria eller laesa mit Paternoster, utan du kommer mig
ichagen. Ja i sjelfa messen kommer mig fore dit taeckleliga Ansigte och
vart karliga omgange. Jag tycker jag kan icke skifta mig for n genann
an Menniska, jungfru Maria, St. Birgitta och himmelens Haerskaror
skalla kanske straffe mig harfar? Men du vet det val, hjertans kaeraste
att jag med fri vilja och uppsaet aldrig dissa reglar samtykt. Mine
foraeldrer hafva vael min kropp i dette fangelset insatt, men hjertaet
kan intet sa snart fran verlden ater kalles!"

(I dare not confess to any other than to thee, that I am not able to
repeat my Ave Maria or read my Paternoster, without calling thee to
mind. Nay, even in the mass itself thy comely face appears, and our
affectionate intercourse recurs to me. It seems to me that I cannot
confess to any other human being--the Virgin Mary, St. Bridget, and
the whole host of heaven will perhaps punish me for it. But thou
knowest well, my heart's beloved, that I have never consented with my
free-will to these rules. My parents, it is true, have placed my body
in this prison, but the heart cannot so soon be weaned from the
world).

How touching is the distress of young hearts! It offers itself to us
from the mouldy parchment, it resounds in old songs. Beg the
grey-haired old dame in the grass turf-house to sing to thee of the
young, heavy sorrow, of the saving angel--and the angel came in many
shapes. You will hear the song of the cloister robbery; of Herr Carl
who was sick to death; when the young nun entered the corpse chamber,
sat down by his feet and whispered how sincerely she had loved him,
and t