. In one of her last notes she says, "Do you remember
that little story I told you of Ste. Colette, the Saint who was walled
up? I think of her so often, so anxiously; I think, I almost think, it
will come to that--walling up, I'm afraid not the sanctity?--with me.
What a harbor it looks--the cloistered life! And there never seemed to
be any place for me in the world. Everything has turned to ashes in my
grasp and on my lips. Perhaps it was that the religious life was always
calling me. I repeat Pere La Cordaire's saying over and over to myself,
'When we Frenchmen become religious, we do it meaning to be religious
up to the neck.'

"I should not enter an active order. I have not the strength. But the
contemplative ones draw me, draw me. Pray for me!"

Mrs. Stainton, Sybarite of Sybarites, a Carmelite, a poor Clare
sleeping on a plank, washing herself with cold water and sand, living
on begged bits, bad herrings, and limp cabbages! Shall we indeed see
that?

20th July.

Susie! Susie! what an ending I must give my letter. Little Malaise is
dead!

"Have you read the papers to-day, Lil?" Ronayne asked me as he was
dressing for dinner two days ago.

"No, they're so stupid these days; nothing but Wimbledon and padding.
Why? Is there anything to-day?"

"No, no; nothing," he answered, and though I thought his manner a
little odd, I had forgotten all about it later when Archdeacon Ryder,
who was dining with us, suddenly asked:

"Did you notice the account of that painful accident in Westbourne
Grove in this morning's 'News'? Those terrible perambulators! I wish
they could be abolished. Maid servants' arms were stouter in my day.
This stupid German nurse seems to have got dazed, or was staring
everywhere but where her business lay. An only child, the paper stated,
an editor's, but I don't remember the name. It was not one familiar to
me. Did you know it?"

"I've heard it," Ronayne answered, and would have changed the subject,
but I broke in:

"Oh, Ronayne, a German nurse! Can anything have happened to Mrs.
Malise's baby? You needn't be silent. Oh, I'm sure it's he!"

And then it all came out--the fact that the child was killed while his
nurse was trying to wheel him across the road in Westbourne Grove--but
Ronayne wouldn't have any details told me.

The poor little man! My own baby's age, and such a sweet-tempered,
patient little fellow! What a life! To come where he had but grudging
welcome, to have no real mo