SISTER ANGELA.

The moments came and went, and still that slight figure lay upon the hospital steps, the small face as white and rigid as though she were dead. It was very early, and the old physician in charge had not yet made his appearance at the hospital, and the wretched inmates dared not venture forth into the street where Beatrix Dane had fallen in that death-like swoon.

Six o'clock chimed forth from a distant steeple, and the sun was lying warm and bright across the girl's pallid face, when a light footstep sounded upon the path, and a woman bent over the girl's prostrate figure—a Sister of Charity—one of those good and holy women who spend their lives in working for others in His holy name, and who alone of all others keep themselves "unspotted from the world."

The sister passing by, on her way to a certain charitable institution, had caught sight of the girl lying upon the hospital steps, and her gentle heart had prompted her to stop and inquire what was the matter. She stooped and peered eagerly into the girl's beautiful white face. The great dark eyes were closed, and she was, to all appearances, dead.

But Sister Angela had seen too much suffering in her life—too many cases similar in some respects to Beatrix Dane's, but not exactly like hers, for surely there was never another such experience in the world.

Sister Angela uttered a cry of dismay.

"The poor child! She is young and fair. She has fainted from exhaustion, or what is more likely, she is in deep trouble. Oh, yes, it is trouble that breaks us down sooner than anything else! It is far worse and more fatal in its effects than the most severe illness. Sickness of the heart—ah, that is incurable!"

Sister Angela lifted the girl's head upon her breast, and pushed aside the veil from the white face to give her air. A faint sigh passed the poor girl's lips, and consciousness seemed slowly struggling back to her. She opened her sad, dark eyes, and they met the pitying gaze of Sister Angela's blue ones.

"Where am I?" moaned the girl, lifting her head. "Uncle Bernard—Keith—oh, my God!"

And the dreadful truth rushed over her memory like a flood, and the golden head drooped once more, and an awful pallor overspread the girlish face. Sister Angela thought she was going to faint again.

"My dear," she said in her soft, persuasive voice, "you are ill and in trouble. Tell me where to take you. I will see you safely to your home and friends."

"Home?"—her voice full of bitterness—"I have no home. Friends? Is there such a thing as a friend—a real friend—in the whole world?"

"If we find none here on earth, there is always One above us, my child," the sister answered, softly. "We must turn to Him for comfort in our sorrow. Nobody else can help us, believe me, dear."

"Who are you?"

"I am Sister Angela; a Sister of Mercy, you know."

"Mercy?" The girl's voice rang out in a bitter cry. "There is no mercy, none, for such as I. Oh, sister—sister, tell me what to do. I am a lost wretch, lost forever. Not in the sense that you think," she added, swiftly, noticing the expression which dawned upon the calm face of the sister. "I have done no intentional wrong, committed no crime; but I have married a good man, and have brought ruin upon his whole life. Listen to my story. It is brief. I married him, and then afterward, when it was too late, I learned that a dreadful fate is in store for me; that I am by inheritance—a dark inheritance, indeed—tainted with leprosy."

"My child!"

The sister's voice trembled perceptibly.

"Surely you do not realize what you are saying!"

"It is true—all true," Beatrix went on swiftly. "I heard the truth, the awful truth, under such circumstances that I can not doubt it. And all the surroundings of my daily life prove that my only relative knew all the time the evil that threatened me, but for some reason—perhaps through mistaken kindness, he failed to let me know the worst. Sister, I am accursed!"

Sister Angela shook her head slowly.

"My dear, nobody is so accursed that the love and pity of the Father of all can not reach them. But I have had experience with this loathsome disease, and I see no indications of it in you as yet. Suppose that you come with me? My child, I do not advise you to enter this hospital, if that was your intention. And Doctor Davis will probably refuse to receive you, since there are no signs of the disease visible upon you. He would refuse you admittance; and, besides, the daily sight of these poor wretches in this pest-house would drive you mad. My dear, be advised by me. I am used to suffering of all kinds, and I say come with me, under my protection. I am attached to an institution for the sick and suffering. You are far from well; I will have you cared for, and when you feel better you may assist me in the sick wards. There is always work for willing hands and a strong young body. And all the time we will watch you narrowly, and when the dark day comes—if God sees fit that it should come to you—and we discover that this awful affliction has really befallen you, we will help you to bear it. And then—not until then, you shall be sent to this refuge. Will you take my advice?"

Beatrix lifted her tear-filled eyes to the saint-like face.

"God must have sent you to me, sister," she sobbed. "I will go with you, and may God forever bless you!"

She arose with some difficulty, for she was very weak. The sister put her strong arm about the slender waist, and taking Beatrix's hand-bag in the other hand, led the girl away. As they turned their backs upon the gloomy old building, Beatrix shuddered.

"I think it is no sin to pray that God will take me away before I am doomed to enter there," she said, softly.

Sister Angela sighed.

"We will hope for the best," she returned, "and—"

The words died on her lips.

Beatrix had come to a sudden pause, grasping the sister's arm in a fierce grip, her eyes dilated with horror.

"See!" she panted, brokenly. "Must I—oh, pitying Father!—must I ever be like that?"

They were passing the grounds that surrounded the lepers' hospital, unkempt and straggling, with a mournful air of melancholy pervading them. Of what use to furnish pleasing sights to attract these doomed wretches?

Accursed, accursed, with nothing to live for, and small hope in the afterward! Peering at them with curious eyes from behind a ragged clump of shrubbery, a wild-looking creature stood, not many feet away from them. It was a sight to be remembered while Beatrix Dane had life. Good heavens! was that horrible caricature of a human being alive? And yet, this woman—for the creature resembled a woman—might have been pretty some day, even as she had once been young.

For a moment Beatrix stood like one petrified, an awful horror in her eyes, which were riveted upon the dreadful sight, her limbs shaking like an old person with the palsy.

Sister Angela spoke at last in a low, trembling voice.

"My dear, I would not look at—at it," she said, gently. "Do not fear. You will never be like that; I am sure of it. That woman is old, and you, my poor child! will not live to be old, I am sure of it, after that affliction comes upon you. And, dear, only think, God may have pity and take you away before that time comes."

Beatrix started, and a little hope flashed into her eyes.

"Sister, do you think that it would be very, very wrong, under my peculiar circumstances, to—to take my own life? I have nothing to live for."

"My dear!" Sister Angela's voice rang out in wild distress. "Never think of such a thing again," she cried. "Oh, believe me, my dear, you had better suffer all the sorrows of this life, and bear all its burdens in patience, knowing that, after the cross, the crown. But suicide is an unpardonable sin in the eyes of God. Never think of it again, my dear, I beg of you. Now, lean on me and I will take you to the car; we will go straight to the home to which I am taking you—a home that God has provided for you. There you will find rest for the present and work for the future, and God will help you to bear your burden, my poor child."