lack garb became
insupportable, and her head-dress weighed upon her like lead. She rose
suddenly, before the sonata was finished.

"I will see you to-morrow," said the general's wife without attempting
to detain her; "the carriage is there. This large packet is for the
abbess, and the one wrapped up in a newspaper is for you."

"For me?" asked Helene in a reproachful tone. "You know that I do not
like...."

"Well, give it from me to poor Olia."

"Thanks. God be with you!"

After warmly embracing Sacha, Helene took her leave. When she had
settled herself in a corner of the carriage, she felt an inexpressible
depression overwhelm her. She would have liked to open the
carriage-door, to plunge into the cold fog, and to run into the infinite
darkness, far away for ever.

IV

Despite the cold of an autumn night, scarcely had Helene entered her
room than she opened her window and inhaled deep breaths of the damp
frosty air which poured into her chamber. She was afraid of the coming
night. She felt that she would not sleep and be sleepless till the
morning. She took a strong dose of a composing draught, but her nerves
were too much disturbed to feel the effect of it.

Just then Olia ran into her room. "How cold it is here," she said.

"For my part I am stifling and feel the want of air," said Helene,
attempting to smile.

"Take care; you will make yourself ill."

"What does that matter," answered Helene with indifference.

"Stop, Olia, see what the general's wife has sent you."

"I am glad to have it," said the novice joyfully, "although they say it
is a sin; I do not hear with that ear." Smiling she opened the packet.
"Bonbons and sweetmeats--hurrah!"

"Take them all away; I do not like sweets; and now, my child, go down
and go to sleep; I want to be alone; I have not prayed to-day."

Helene closed the door and entered her tiny bedroom, a great space in
which was occupied by a screen with sacred pictures. The whitewashed
walls were bare, and so was the floor. The general's wife had sent her a
carpet, but Helene had at once given it to the church. In one corner
was a narrow bed, on a little table a Gospel richly bound, the _Life of
Jesus Christ_ by Ferrara, and some devotional books. Under the table was
a box containing all her property, old letters and portraits. This she
called her "cemetery." She lit the wax candles before the sacred images
and amid the surrounding darkness, the gold frames, and bright h