months back, retained, no doubt, through forgetfullness, until reminded.
The paper, of recent issue, tells of the ceremony at St. Peter's, which
admitted to the novitiate several noble ladies, native and foreign, and
among the rest an _artist_ of merit, Miss Lavinia La Vigne, of Georgia,
United States of America.

On the margin of the paper were a few penciled words in her own
handwriting: "I have found the reality." This was all.

I shall never see her again unless I go to Rome, and then only through a
grating, or in the presence of others like herself, for she has taken
the black veil, and retired behind a shadow deep as that cast from the
cypress-shaded tomb. Yet, under existing circumstances, and in
consideration of her early experiences which no success nor later future
could obliterate, or render less unendurable, I believe she has chosen
the wiser part.

Peace be with thee, Bertie, whether in earth or in heaven!

EDITOR'S Note.--... Some years after the closing of Miriam Monfort's
Retrospect, the civil war broke out in the United Stales, and Pope Pius
IX was pleased to grant permission to several American nuns, Southern
ladies, whose vocation was religious, to visit their own States, and
lend what succor, spiritual and physical, they could to the wounded and
dying, on the battle-fields and in the Confederate camps. Among these
came the Sister Ursula, from the convent of the Cartusians, known once
as Lavinia, or Bertie La Vigne. She was particularly fearless and
efficient, and was killed by a cannon-ball at Shiloh while kneeling
beside a dying officer, ascertained to be her sister's husband, the
gallant George Gaston of the Seventh Georgia. By order of Colonel
Favraud, they were buried in one grave. He best knew wherefore this was
done.

Our home overlooks the calm bay of Sun Francisco, standing, as it does,
on an eminence, surrounded with stately forest-trees, and dark from a
distance with evergreens which trail their majestic branches over roods
of lawn.

These trees have ever been a passion with me. I love their aromatic
odors, reminding one of balm and frankincense, and the great Temple of
Solomon itself, built of fine cedar-wood. I admire their stately
symmetry, and the majesty of their unchanging presence, and stand well
pleased and invigorated in their shadow.

Our house is built of stone, and faced with white marble brought from
beyond the seas. Its architectural details are composite, and yet of