on I came."

"Have you repented of your sin and do you desire to lead a better life?"

"I have repented bitterly," answered the girl, bursting into a flood of
tears, "oh! how bitterly God alone knows! I wish to hide myself from the
world; I wish to atone for my shame by whatever good action my hands can
find to do."

"It is well," said the Countess, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm.
"The field is wide, and the Order of Sisters of Refuge, although large,
is always open for new additions. Much good has already been done, but
more remains to be accomplished, infinitely more. You shall be received
and given an opportunity to share in the great work."

"From the depths of my soul I thank you!" sobbed the girl. "I will try
earnestly to be worthy of your benevolence!"

"Tell me your story now," said the Superior. "I cannot believe that the
guilt was altogether yours."

"I am grateful, signora, for those words. I was thoughtless and
indiscreet, but not criminal. Happy and contented in my humble peasant
home, I was pure and innocent. I knew nothing of the wickedness of men,
of the snares set to entrap unwary young girls. I lived with my father
and brother in the vicinity of Rome, selling flowers in that city from
time to time. I had never had a suitor, never had a lover. My heart was
free, filled with the joyousness of youth. I had been told that I
possessed a fair share of beauty, but that neither made me vain nor
inclined me to coquetry. Oh! signora, I shall never be so happy again!"

Emotion overcame her and her tears started afresh. The Countess soothed
her and she continued:

"One fatal night, my brother brought two strange young men to our
cabin. They appeared to be peasants like ourselves, and one of them had
been wounded in a fight with a brigand. They remained with us for some
days. I nursed the wounded man, who, when he grew convalescent, made
love to me. I listened to his ardent declarations, submitted to his
endearments. I grew to love him in my turn, and, oh! signora, I believed
in him, trusted him. At that period I had nothing to reproach myself
with, and Tonio, that was my admirer's name, seemed sincerity itself.
One day he asked me to fly with him, but our conversation was
interrupted and I gave him no answer. I was confused, I did not know
what to do. That evening I received a letter from him--I found it on the
table in the room I occupied, concealed beneath my work-box--telling me
that everything w