inviting fauteuils allured those succored by the
Countess of Monte-Cristo and her vigilant aids. On every side the
library was surrounded with book-cases, containing absorbing romances,
volumes of travel, the productions of the celebrated poets, histories
and essays, with a liberal sprinkling of religious works, mostly
non-sectarian and invariably of a consolatory character. In addition
elegantly and thoroughly equipped work-rooms were provided, in which
those who were so inclined could practice embroidery, sew or manufacture
the thousand and one little fancy knick-knacks at which female fingers
are so skilful. Nothing, however, was compulsory, the main object being
to afford the inmates of the Refuge agreeable occupation, to elevate
them and to prevent them from looking back regretfully to the agitated
lives they had led and the vices that had held empire over them in the
past. Truly a more generous, unselfish lover of her sex than the noble
Countess of Monte-Cristo did not exist.

The protegees of the Sisters of the Order of Refuge embraced women of
all ages, all nationalities and all conditions in life. They included
Parisian grisettes and lorettes, recruited by Nini Moustache in her
coquettish apartment of the Chaussee d' Antin, for Nini had proved a
most effective missionary; young girls, who had fallen a prey to
designing roues and been abandoned to the whirl of that gulf of
destruction, the streets of Paris; Spanish senoritas, who had listened
too credulously to the false vows of faithless lovers; Italian peasant
girls, whose pretty faces and charms of person had been their ruin;
unfortunate German, English, Dutch and Scandinavian maidens; and even
brands snatched from the burning in Russia, Turkey and Greece. This
somewhat diverse community dwelt together in perfect sisterly accord,
chastened by their individual misfortunes, encouraged and upheld in the
path of reform by the Countess of Monte-Cristo, who was to all the
unfortunates as a tender, thoughtful and considerate mother.

One quiet night, just as darkness had settled down over the streets of
Civita Vecchia, a timid knock at the entrance door of the Refuge
aroused the portress on duty there. Such knocks were often heard and
well understood. The portress arose from her bench, partly opened the
door and admitted a trembling young girl, whose crouching and shrunken
form was clad in a mass of tattered rags. A thin red cloak was thrown
over her shoulders, an