Sister Dolorosa and Posthumous Fame

he awoke that morning she resolutely put away all thought of what had happened the evening be

sited by some question touching who he was and whither he had gone; for it did not even occur to her that he would ever cross her path again. Soon she reached old Martha's; and then-

e his dress, with the view of going to the convent the next day. As he came back he followed the cou

d darted high over his head straight to the convent. But his step grew slower and his look expectant. When they were a few yards apart he stepped out of the p

t are strangers allowe

ming to shrink away. He saw the fingers of one hand lace themselves around the cross. Then a moment later, in a voice ver

ved off approach. In his mind he had crossed the distance from himself to her so often that he had forgotten t

oing also. The old man had few thoughts; but with that shrewd secretiveness which is sometimes found in the dull

hood! Here, then, she lived and struggled and soared. An unearthly quietude came over him as he walked up the long avenue of elms, painfully jarred on by the noise of Ezra's shuffling feet among the dry leaves. Joyous life had retired to infinite remoteness; and over him, like a preternatu

d nun stepped from behind a hedgero

ldly, glancing at Helm and fixing her eyes

he country, and heard that I would

u a Cat

m a Prot

ith any of the young

am

through. He met her scrutin

will take your name t

ing. Then an inner door opened, and another aged nun, sweet-faced and gentl

y the while to the old man. Then the door opened again, and the heart of Helm beat violently; t

he greeted Ezra and bowed to Helm, lifting to him an instant, but without

he Sister, addressing Helm, who placed h

d joined them, and as soon as pretext offered he looked back. In a pew near the door through which they had entered he could just see the kneeling form and bowed head of Sister Dolorosa. There sh

The Sister opened the little latticed gate, and the others passed in. The temptation

t some recently dug bulbs, "has Martha taken up her tender bulbs? The frost wil

" she inquired careless

company. Moreover, he knew the good Sister's love of news. So he began to r

plied, with a mysteri

g aside into another walk, "and look at the c

most had feared-there fell upon each a momentary silence of preparation. Speak she must; if only in speaking she might not err. Speak he cou

er of flowers, but sometimes lifting it shyly to his, began with

er at a distance. These were the white lilies, but one of the Sisters died, and we made a cross. That was in June. Jump-up-Johnnies were planted in this bed, but they did not do well. It has been a bad year. A storm blew the hollyhocks down, and there were canker-worms in the roses. That is the way with the flowers: they fail one year, and they succeed the next. They would never fail if they were let alone. It is pleasant to see them starting out in the Spring to be perfect each in its own way. It is

t delight in some exquisite child nature. And therefore, feeling thus towards her, and seeing the poor, dead garden with only common f

nt with dew; the May sun golden in the heavens; far and near birds singing and soaring in ecstasy; the air lulling the sense with perfume, quickening the blood with freshness; and there, within that frame of roses, her head bare and shining, her funereal garb for ever laid

to describe his mother's garden, she listening closely because of her love for flowers, which had become companion

sperous year in the school, and there will be money to spare. This row of lilacs is to be dug up, and the fence set back

d him say," rep

rtha has he

e toe of his stout

to dig up the lilacs, Ezra. You c

hreateningly at the bushes.

. Has Martha heard him sa

, conceding something i

ect and some are imperfect, you see. Those that are perfect are

them?" he said gently, thinking how perfect

e all alike, because none would n

what do you find to love then?" he asked, la

y for a season, and it would not be fair to forget them because they have gone away." This she

s that are not present?" he asked, l

r. "Young ladies are sometimes sent to us from that region." And now, having gotten from Ezra the infor

top of the adjacent building. "From there you can see how far the convent lands

n was to be transferred to

much of you to climb s

replied wearily; "and if our str

ry of the building, from which the observatory was reached by a short

ister?" she said feeb

en shaking his head with a stupid look

id to him, "You could not fall." But he ref

pair wen

of his own region, now lying heavy in varied autumnal ripeness and teeming with noble, gentle animal life; with rolling pastures as green as May under great trees of crimson and gold; with flashing streams and placid sheets of water, and great sec

ct this, or whether she was aroused to offset his description by another of unlike interest, scarcely had he finished w

, "is the creek which used to be so deep in winter that the priests had to swim it as they walked from one distant mission to another in the wilderness, holding above the waves the crucifix and the sacrament. Under that tree down there the Father who founded this convent built with his own h

ave succeeded. Her face kindled with emotion; and as he watched it he forgot even her creed in this revelation of her

tuckians among the

ere was one a few years ago. His death was a great blow to the Fathers. They had hoped tha

quarter of the horizon which she had pointed out as the site of the abbey. Then he spoke me

is history; it is human life. Here are the eternal ties and relations. Here are the eternal needs and duties; everything that keeps the world young and the heart at

ting below, "is not the wind bl

blowing, Sister,

the little footpath towards the farm-house in the distance. By a common impu

get that spot," he

or

ht some palest little star is loosened from its orbit, shoots a brief span, and disappears, this confession of hers traced its course acro

uld be of any interest," the aged Sister said

answered, looking around that he might d

audible words were Sister Dolorosa's. The scene of th

from the least to the greatest, as thou givest them life! Thou that livest by their loves and their myriad plightings of troth and myriad marriages! With what inconsolable sorrow must thou receive back upon thy bosom, the chaste

songless lips; the sad desolation of this unfinished end-all were the last thing needed to wring the heart of Helm with dumb pity and an ungovernable anguish of rebellion. This, then, was to be her portion. His whole nature cried aloud against it. His ideas of human life, civilisation, his age, his country, his State,

e himself led the way out. At the ga

of the convent. Note what he says, Ezra. The order wants friends in Kentucky, where it was born and has flo

ype of the convent. By her he will be made to feel the power of the order to cons

was thinking of her as a woman of Kentucky-of his own generation-and trying to understand the mot

ch her ear alone-"I have never thought that my life would not be full of h

ent building. There was so much that he wished to say, but scarcely one of hi

that I could carry away, with my thoughts of this place, the thought that you a

t all," she said quickly, speaking

not help i

desiring to be happy, but a

nison with her meek and patient words. And then she paused, and, turning, waited for the Sister to come up beside them. Nor di

the scenes of death, she had appeared a woman too quickly aged and too early touched with resignation. He did not know that the effect of convent life is to force certain faculties into maturity while others are repressed into unalterable unripeness; so that in such instances as Sister Dolorosa's the whole nature resem

d her head from all human vision, and then unfastening at waist and throat the heavier black vestment of the order, allowed it to slip to the floor, revealing a whit

rooping; her bare arms, white as the necks of swans, hung in forgotten grace at her sides; her eyes, large, dark, poetic, and spiritual, were bent upon the floor, so that the lashes left their shadows on her cheeks, while the delicate, overcircling brows were arched high with melancholy. As the nun's funereal robes had slipped from her person had he

ne of the Virgin. Slowly, still absently, she walked to it, and, taking it up, threw it over her head, so that the soft fabric enveloped her head and neck and fell in misty folds about her person; she thinking the while only of t

nvent. Since entering it Sister Dolorosa had not seen a reflection of herself, except perhaps her shadow in the sun or her face in a troubled basin of water. Now, with one overwhelming flood of womanly self-consciousness, she bent forward, noting the outline of her unc

der to thoughts that covered her, on face and neck, with a rosy cloud more maidenly than the white mist of the veil. Then, as if recalled by some lightning stroke of conscience, with fearful