s, but some grave, wise man, who saw
your soul in your face, and learned, slowly and quietly, to love you for
your goodness. Ay, in spite of--of"----(here the frank, plain-speaking
Marion again hesitated a little, but continued boldly) "any little
imperfection which may make you fancy yourself different to other
people. If that is your sole reason for saying, as you did the other
day, that"----

"Nay, Marion, you have talked quite enough of me."

"But you will forgive me! I could hate myself if I have pained you,
seeing how much I love you, how much every one learns to love you."

"Is it so? Then I am very happy!" And the smile sat long upon her face.

"Can you guess whither I am taking you?" said Marion, as they paused
before a large and handsome gateway. "Here is the Roman Catholic
convent--beautiful St. Margaret's, the sweetest spot at Morningside.
Shall we enter?"

Olive assented. Of late she had often thought of those old tales of
forlorn women, who, sick of life, had hidden themselves from the world
in solitudes like this. Sometimes she had almost wished she could do the
same. A feeling deeper than curiosity attracted her to the convent of
St. Margaret's.

It was indeed a sweet place; one that a weary heart might well long
after. The whole atmosphere was filled with a soft calm--a silence like
death, and yet a freshness as of new-born life. When the heavy door
closed, it seemed to shut out the world; and without any sense of regret
or loss, you passed, like a passing soul, into another existence.

They entered the little convent-parlour. There, on the plain, ungamished
walls, hung the two favourite pictures of Catholic worship; one,
thorn-crowned, ensanguined, but still Divine; the other, the Mother
lifted above all mothers in blessedness and suffering. Olive gazed long
upon both. They seemed meet for the place. Looking at them, one felt as
if all trivial earthly sorrows must crumble into dust before these two
grand images of sublime woe.

"I think," said Miss Rothesay, "if I were a nun, and had known ever so
great misery, I should grow calm by looking at these pictures."

"The nuns don't pass their time in that way I assure you," answered
Marion M'Gillivray. "They spend it in making such things as these." And
she pointed to a case of babyish ornaments, pin-cushions, and artificial
flowers.

"How very strange," said Olive, "to think that the interests and duties
of a woman's life should sink down into