ust be contemplated. Is it the venerable cloister buried
in the snow, buffeted by the storm, and threatened by the avalanche?
is it the awful death of starvation hanging in all its gloomy
anticipations over the community isolated by the snow-storm from the
civilized world around? Or will it be the just indignation of the
holy monks in finding the true character of the refugees whom they
have sheltered in ignorance, contrary to the canons of the Church?
Or will the still more devastating and ruthless storm of religious
persecution seek the sanctuary in the clouds to desecrate it, to
scatter its inmates and wreck its cloisters?

A calamity as thrilling and not less anticipated will fling a sad
memory around the venerable cloisters of Martigny.

Cassier is in the group listening to the aged monk recount his
adventures; with knitted eyebrows he hears him moralizing on the awful
destiny of the future. He is a silent listener; the conversation
is carried on by the garrulous and interested youths and the happy,
virtuous old monk. A forced sobriety, or the atmosphere of virtue
which he dreads, has cast a gloom over him. His thoughts are still
reeking with the blasphemy of the Masonic lodges, and, though restrained
by politeness from intruding his unbelief, he expresses in scowls
and monosyllables his dissentient feelings.

Charles still burns with indignation at her father's irreligion and
personal ill-treatment. Her flushed countenance and agitated manner
were at times indexes of passion, revenge, and self-love; for a moment
the feeling is strong and irresistible, then calms again with the
holier sentiments of remorse and self-condemnation.

A morning as brilliant as ever lit up the glaciers of Mt. Blank rose
over the cloisters. Charles and Henry accompany their father on a
stroll through the mountain. They miss their kind Mentor, who is
on a retreat for some days. Henry, commencing to love solitude, strays
from her father and Charles to gather ferns and wild flowers creeping
from the crevices of the rocks, or rising with exquisite beauty from
a layer of snow. They are emblems of her own innocence and fragrant
as her virtue, growing in the wilderness and shedding their charms
on rocks and snow-peaks, instead of ornamenting gardens of culture
and beauty. Poor Aloysia would be more at home in some arbor of
innocence where angels love to tarry, and where the voice and gaze of
the worldly-minded have never fallen.