ertain
romantic charm. The house is old, turreted like a chateau, overgrown
with clematis and passion-flower. The grounds, enclosed by high mossy
walls, are of great extent, and beautifully laid out. The long chestnut
avenue, the sparkling fountains, the trim flower-beds, are the delight
of the sisters' hearts. The green beauty of the garden, and the grey
stones of the ancient building, form a charming background for the
white-veiled women who glide with noiseless footsteps along the
cloisters or the avenue: a background more becoming to them even than to
the bevy of girls in their everyday grey frocks, or their Sunday garb of
white and blue. For the sisters' quaint and graceful dress harmonizes
with the antique surroundings of building and ornament as anything
younger and more modern fails to do.

These women--shut off from the world, and knowing little of its joys or
sorrows--have a strangely tranquil air. With some the tranquility verges
on childishness. One feels that they have not conquered the world, they
have but escaped it; and, as one pities the soldier who flies the
battle, so one mourns for the want of courage which has condemned these
women to an inglorious peace. But here and there another kind of face is
to be seen. Here and there we come across a countenance bearing the
tragic impress of toil and grief and passion; and we feel it possible
that in this haven alone perhaps could a nature which had striven and
suffered so greatly find in the end a lasting place. But such faces are
fortunately few and far between.

From the wide low window of the great _salle d'etude_ a flight of steps
with carved stone balustrades led into the garden. The balustrades were
half-covered with clustering white roses and purple clematis on the day
of which I write; and a breath of perfume, almost overpowering in its
sweetness, was wafted every now and then from the beds of mignonette and
lilies on either side. The brilliant sunshine of an early September day
was not yet touched with the melancholy of autumn: the leaves of the
Virginia creeper had not yet changed to scarlet, nor had the chestnuts
yellowed as if winter was creeping on apace. Everything was still, warm
and bright.

The stillness was partly accounted for by the fact that most of the
pupils had gone home for their summer holidays. The _salle d'etude_ was
empty and a little desolate: no hum of busy voices came from its open
window to the garden; and even the tranqui