hat she was thinking of, and yet, as if
wafted toward her on the air, she would now and then seem to hear the
words: "A life in which nothing happens."

On the following morning, after early mass, Irma was permitted to visit
her friend. She was frightened when she saw Emma, and yet it was the
same mild countenance, only terribly disfigured by the closely fitting
hood that completely covered the hair and gave her face greater
prominence.

After the first outburst of grief and sympathy that followed the
recital of her sad affliction, Emma at last said to Irma, who had again
and again pressed her to her heart:

"Your embraces are so passionate. I know you will never be able to
learn humility. You cannot; it is not your nature. But you should
acquire equanimity. You could never enter a convent, Irma, and never
ought to; or you would long to return to the world. You must become a
good wife, but do not imagine that your ideal will ever be realized.
Our existence here is fragmentary and full of misery. Life here below
is not intended to be beautiful and complete. But, Irma, take heed you
do not attempt to loosen a barrier, or to overstep it. Draw back while
you are still on this side!"

Emma did not mention the king's name. There was a long pause. Irma felt
as if their present surroundings must stifle her.

Emma spoke of what had happened but a few weeks ago, as if decades has
passed in the mean while. She discoursed to her friend the strength
that lay in continuous devotion; how it lengthened the hours into years
full of placid victory over the world. She felt happy that it was
possible, even on earth, to lay aside one's name and memories, and lead
an existence which, without one steep step, gradually led one to
eternal bliss. Emma, however, complained that they would not allow her
to take the veil, and resented it as tyranny that she was only
permitted to remain as a serving sister without vows.

"It is right that you should not," exclaimed Irma; "I think Bronnen
loves you, but he's a man who respects existing facts. His moral
character would lead him to repress, rather than manifest, warm feeling
toward an affianced bride. He deserves you. I don't say that you should
now--How could you? How would he dare? You should remain your own
mistress and, after you've spent a year or more in the convent, you
may, with that excellent man, lead a life which, if void of transports,
will be none the less true and beautiful. All I