disordered,' said she, 'you observe how
she wanders. In these moods she says any thing, and does not scruple, as
you have witnessed, to accuse herself of the most horrible crimes.'

Emily, however, thought she perceived something more than madness in
the inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the Marchioness,
and production of her picture, had interested her so much, that she
determined to obtain further information, if possible, respecting the
subject of it.

The nun returned with the casket, and, Agnes pointing out to her a
secret drawer, she took from it another miniature. 'Here,' said Agnes,
as she offered it to Emily, 'learn a lesson for your vanity, at least;
look well at this picture, and see if you can discover any resemblance
between what I was, and what I am.'

Emily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had scarcely
glanced upon, before her trembling hands had nearly suffered it to
fall--it was the resemblance of the portrait of Signora Laurentini,
which she had formerly seen in the castle of Udolpho--the lady, who
had disappeared in so mysterious a manner, and whom Montoni had been
suspected of having caused to be murdered.

In silent astonishment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon the
picture and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resemblance between
them, which no longer existed.

'Why do you look so sternly on me?' said Agnes, mistaking the nature of
Emily's emotion.

'I have seen this face before,' said Emily, at length; 'was it really
your resemblance?'

'You may well ask that question,' replied the nun,--'but it was once
esteemed a striking likeness of me. Look at me well, and see what guilt
has made me. I then was innocent; the evil passions of my nature slept.
Sister!' added she solemnly, and stretching forth her cold, damp hand
to Emily, who shuddered at its touch--'Sister! beware of the first
indulgence of the passions; beware of the first! Their course, if not
checked then, is rapid--their force is uncontroulable--they lead us we
know not whither--they lead us perhaps to the commission of crimes, for
which whole years of prayer and penitence cannot atone!--Such may be the
force of even a single passion, that it overcomes every other, and sears
up every other approach to the heart. Possessing us like a fiend, it
leads us on to the acts of a fiend, making us insensible to pity and
to conscience. And, when its purpose is accomplished, like a fiend,
it leaves us t