Vespers were drawing to a close. A young nun, Sister Helene, who had just finished her novitiate and taken the veil, stood in a dark recess, viewed from whence, the old church, with its round columns, seemed to fade away into the mysterious darkness under the cupola. She watched the black outlines of the "Sisters in Jesus" kneeling in the middle of the nave, the gilded "iconostasis" or church-screen with its blackened pictures set in frames sparkling with precious stones, its wax-tapers and lamps burning softly in the heavy incense-laden air. Each time that the deacon passed, waving his censer, they seemed to burn more brightly. But Sister Helene was lost in contemplation of a painting which had just been finished by the nun who shared her cell. The figure of the Holy Virgin seemed to stand out from the dark background; her large eyes were sadly fixed on the heads bent in devotion; the flickering flame seemed to cast light and shadow alternately on the divine features. It seemed sometimes to Helene that the sorrowful eyes of the Mother of God glowed with a misty light. Helene was not praying. Rapt in a self-forgetful reverie, her soul soared higher than the arches of the church; she had not heard the broken voice of the old priest, which sounded like a sob, any more than she heard the beatings of her own heart; she took no account of the flight of time till she felt a hand touch her arm.

"Are you going to stay there till morning?" a little misshapen old woman asked her with a discontented air.

"It is a real sin in you younger ones to stay so, absent-minded, without even making the sign of the cross. See! the wax-tapers have burnt out. You have been thinking long enough in your self-conceit, 'Here I am alone, and all the others have gone.'"

"Pardon, Sister Seraphine," murmured the nun.

"Very well! God will pardon you. Go now, I am closing the church. But make the sign of the cross; that will not break your arm, and then an obeisance. God be with you. All the same, it is a sin in you young ones. Ah, if they would only give us another abbess."

Helene turned once more to look at the church-screen.

The church was now plunged in silence and darkness; the old nun hobbled before the altar, then disappeared behind the columns. Here and there were visible the little flames of the lamps which are never put out. A bunch of keys fell on the flag-stones, sounding like the clash of chains. Sister Seraphine had dropped them.

Once more she watched the young nun's figure as it vanished in the darkness.

"One of the intellectuals!" grumbled the old woman.

"Are we not then all equal before God, those who know as well as those who are ignorant. To speak seven languages, is to multiply one's sins sevenfold. Jesus did not seek for His apostles among the learned, but among fishermen. It is better then to be ignorant. If we had another Superior, Mother Anempodista for instance, she would not have hesitated to give you her blessing and send you to wash the dishes or knead the dough. We are one community; service and trouble, all ought to be shared. It is not French that the Apostle Peter will speak at the gate of Paradise; he will not be afraid to strike you on the forehead with his key and to say, 'Be off, blue-stocking, to the eternal fire; go and talk French to the devils.' No, there is something seriously wrong with these young ones. The Evil One hovers about them trying to entangle them. Certainly it was better under Mother Anempodista; in her time the blue-stockings would not have given themselves airs over the others."

Still hobbling as she went, the old woman closed the church and went in the darkness to the clock tower where she had lived for about forty years. From the time of her first arrival at the convent and entrance on her novitiate, she had been entrusted with the duty of the portress and remained in that post. There under the bells, in a tiny cell like a niche in a wall, Sister Seraphine grew old and suffered, became bent and looked forward to die the death of the righteous. She lived half-forgotten there, the little old woman, but content. Above her boomed the great bells of the convent, close by her ear tinkled the bell of the main entrance when a visitor called. Sometimes, when gusts of wind roared in the bell-tower, Sister Seraphine would cross herself, murmuring, "Holy saints have mercy! How excited the Evil One is! Whose soul is he coming to seek? Can it be Sister Elizabeth's? To-day a fine aroma of coffee came from her cell. What a temptation!"

Sister Seraphine's cell was occupied almost entirely by a bed of rough planks; a mattress, a white pillow, a sheepskin coverlet constituted all her luxuries. On the narrow sill of the little window—almost a loop-hole—were placed a piece of bread, some black radishes, salt and kvass; high up in a corner a lamp burned before the icon.

On entering she made the sign of the cross and lay down on her pallet, but suddenly the gate-bell rang wildly. In a moment she was on her feet.

"I am coming! I hear! I hear! The lunatics to ring like that!" she grumbled, taking down the great key from the wall; "here is fine music."

She descended, shivering, and opened with difficulty the large gate which grated on its hinges.

"Well, what makes you ring like that? We are not deaf," she said to a huge footman wrapped in his fur-lined livery. "Where have you come from and from whom?" she asked, seeing a closed carriage standing a little way off.

"Let me pass first, little old woman; I shall find my way quite well."

"Answer first; to whom are you going?"

"To the Lady Abbess, old crow of a portress! It is Madame the wife of General Khlobestovsky who sends me; don't you recognize me? Take your eyes out of your pocket."

"Yes, if one had time to study your face! You have all the same faces, as like each other as the curbstones of pavements. It is a sin to have to do with you. Wait till I call Sister Anastasia; she will go to our Mother. Have you a letter? Give it me. A pretty word—'crow of a portress.' You think yourself somebody because you are covered with clothes belonging to your master. Wait! Wait! when the hour of your death strikes, you will remember that 'crow of a portress,' and you will repent. But God is good; He will pardon you; because you lack brains. Consider at any rate, great booby, where you are. 'A crow' ... the idiot!"

II

Sister Helene, after having left the empty church, turned to the left to reach her cell. A row of little windows, constructed at different heights, illuminated the darkness here and there, and were reflected in the pools of water formed by the last rain-fall. A pavement formed of planks ran along the length of these little dwellings; there was no uniformity in their design, but some of them were picturesque; by daylight the convent presented an original aspect. None of these dwellings resembled each other; some were two stories, others a story and a half high. In these lived the sisters who were well-to-do. They were painted different colours—grey, rose, white, etc. In summer lime trees and birches sheltered them from the sun. To-day the wind whistled through the naked branches.

Helene had not yet reached her door, when she saw approaching her, like a red point in the darkness, some one carrying a lantern.

"Who comes there?" she asked.

"Is it you, Sister?" answered a youthful voice whose musical tones sounded strange in the blackness of the night.

"What! Is it you? You come to meet me?"

"Yes, I have prepared the samovar (tea-urn). As you did not come, I feared something had happened, and here I am."

"I had forgotten in the church how time passed, and Sister Seraphine made me come out."

"It was time; it has struck seven."

"And you—what have you been doing? I have not seen you the whole day."

"I have been painting; then I tried to read, but my head felt heavy. I think my John the Baptist is not a success."

"Why?"

"I cannot give him the aspect of an ascetic; his eyes, his smile are too sweet; the desert sun had bronzed him, his features must have been harsher."

"Paint him as God inspires you. This evening, during vespers, I looked at your Holy Virgin the whole time."

"You think it good."

"It is perfect. Her sad eyes, her inspired face seem to say that she knows her divine Son will suffer for humanity."

"Well, but Sister Seraphine is not pleased with it."

"What does she say?" asked Helene with a smile.

"That it is hardly befitting to have beautiful pictures in convents, that the eyes of nuns ought not to dwell on the works of sinners."

"God bless her! She grumbles, but she is good at bottom. When I was ill, before you came, she hardly ever left me. Here we are at my door."

Helene and the novice Olia rapidly ascended the steps of the staircase, shaking the water from their cloaks. When they reached her well-warmed room, Helene took off her short black pelisse and the cap which concealed her hair. Her dwelling had two stages; Olia, her guest, lodged and worked on the ground floor; Helene occupied the upper one. The furniture was very simple—a table of white wood, a small very hard sofa covered with brown holland, two old arm-chairs and straw-bottomed chairs ranged along the wall. Above the sofa hung the portrait of some unknown nun with dark eyes shadowed by a black veil and pale wrinkled lips. In one corner, a lamp burned before an icon in a gold frame.

Helene was not yet thirty years old; her face, pale and thin, had already assumed the monastic expression, but her refined features were still beautiful; her large proud eyes recalled by their sadness and their passionate expression Carlo Dolce's martyrs. One could guess that in this soul which had already long suffered, the sacrifice was not yet consummated, and the struggle still continued. In those dark eyes there often came also the poignant look of physical suffering; her face showed signs of sleepless nights, suppressed tears and sobs choked down.

Olia, with her sharp ear, heard her sometimes leap from her bed, run to the window, open it and fall on her knees in prayer. It was not the conventual life which weighed on Helene, but that which she had left outside the walls. Her life in the convent was pleasant and easy; the inmates had for her the regard which a sister deserves who brings a considerable fortune, and who was, moreover, highly cultured, a fact which lent peculiar distinction to the community. When illustrious benefactresses visited the convent, Sister Helene was immediately sent for in order to talk French; these ladies departed delighted, and in aristocratic circles talked of "our convent," in order to distinguish it from the other at the opposite end of the town, which was humble and poverty-stricken, without cultured nuns and unvisited by grand ladies.

This time also, scarcely had Helene sat down to her tea than she was sent for by the abbess.

"May I come in?" said a voice behind the door.

"Certainly," answered Helene. "Ah, it is you, Sister Athanasia."

"Peace be with you, and God bless you; will you come to our Mother Varlaama."

"What is it?"

"Nothing; only a note for you, and they are waiting."

The abbess was a stout, heavy woman, with a plain but honest face such as is often seen in tradesmen's widows who have lived a quiet life with a sober and affectionate husband. She received Helene with a tender kiss:

"General Khlobestovsky's lady asks me to let you go to her this evening; she is particularly anxious about it and has sent the carriage."

"But it was just this evening that I did not want to go out."

"And why, may I ask? She is one of your old school-fellows, and what is more, rich and a fine lady. Go then for our sakes. Yesterday again her husband has sent us from the country two carts full of meal, flour and oil. We cannot refuse anything to such benefactors; he would regard it as a want of respect and would become indifferent to us. Make this sacrifice, Sister Helene, for the great advantage of us all. Finally I exact it as an act of obedience, as part of your conventual service. Go! Go!"

So saying, she embraced and dismissed her.

III

Helene felt ill at ease every time that she entered the Khlobestovsky's drawing-room, not exactly because she disliked the mistress of the house; they had been school-fellows and had remained friends. The general was always absent; he preferred country life and the superintendence of his estate, in the first place because his affairs got on the better for it, and secondly he was thus out of reach of the sentimental and romantic claims of his wife, claims which his personal appearance did little to justify.

Each time that the general's wife saw Helene again, she applied a fine cambric handkerchief to her eyes to wipe away some tears, her flabby cheeks quivered, and innumerable wrinkles appeared round her chin and mouth.

"What self-sacrifice!" she invariably exclaimed, pressing her friend's hands. "How happy you are, my darling! while we are—how does one say it?—drowned in sin."

"Plunged," corrected her children's governess.

"Yes, plunged. Exactly so! You, on the other, are saving your soul, and are quite absorbed in God."

Then she took Helene's hand and said, "You are tired; take my arm."

"No, I am not, I assure you."

"Still, do it, dear Sister."

It was one of the general's wife's principles on commencing the conversation to speak with deference to her friend, though she was the younger of the two.

"These matins, these vespers, these masses! ... It will indeed be well with you up there." And she lifted her large green eyes to the ceiling.

This time also she did not omit the inevitable comedy, and taking Helene's arm, she drew her to her boudoir, where the sound of several voices was audible.

"Come, dear, I have absolute confidence in you."

The "lady bountiful," a friend of General Khlobestovsky, was already seated in the boudoir. Her goggle eyes and projecting jaws well adapted to frighten poor people, opened wide at Helene's arrival, and in a high-pitched voice, imitating a famous actress, she exclaimed with a sigh, "How happy I am! How delighted! Holy woman!" and then turning towards a young girl very simply dressed who was also smiling at the nun, said, "Ah, Sacha, how long have you been here?"

Sacha was a niece of the general, and had been taking a course of music lessons at Petrograd. When she saw her, Helene's face lighted up.

"My course was over a fortnight ago, and I took advantage of it to come home again."

"You would do much better," said the "benefactress," looking at Helene, "to follow her example than to follow your course; I tell her so in your presence, Sister, because I tell her so when you are not there to hear. To think that at your age, with your beauty, you have been able to go through such severe tests in order to overcome sin!"

"Why did you send for me?" Helene asked.

"Because, dear, we have decided to make a blue altar-cloth embroidered with gold and silk for your convent. Without your advice we do not know how to set about it; it is impossible for us to choose the design and the colours."

The table was already covered with the velvet cloth in question which reached down to the ground; on it were lying skeins of silk, fringes and gold thread. As soon as Helene had taken her seat the ladies began an earnest discussion on the question whether they should embroider the flowers flame-colour, the stalks white, the leaves red, and at the top in gold a border of moss-roses.

"But would it look natural?" said the nun.

"Then what are we to do?" answered the "benefactress" in an agitated way. "Enlighten us, dear Sister; without you we are in darkness."

When the consultation was over, Sacha, who had waited impatiently, approached Helene, took her arm, and led her to the drawing-room.

"I have been to your church to-day," she said. "I have looked for you everywhere without seeing you."

"I generally stand on the right in a corner."

"In the shadow?"

"Yes; one feels more comfortable out of observation."

"It is a pity; I was looking forward so much to meeting you again, and did not succeed."

"Why regret it?"

"Ah well! As a devotee you are simply superb; one would say you had stepped out of the frame of a holy picture. And how they sing at your convent! You have a magnificent voice."

"Who says so?"

"My aunt in the first place. At school it seems that you already held every one under a spell."

"Your aunt is too kind."

"Not at all; she is only just. But tell me why do you not take part in the convent choirs?"

"I do not wish to," said Helene, and a shadow passed over her face.

"Pardon me," murmured Sacha, taking her hand. "I have perhaps vexed you; I am so foolish."

"Not at all," answered Helene. "It is not that. But you see, I ought not to sing. Doubtless, you do not understand me. Anna Petrovna declares in her kindness that I have overcome all sins, but it is not so. A nun ought to seek before all things to forget the world where she has lived. It ought not to attract her any more. No one knows anything of our struggles and our mental distresses. If I recommenced to sing, the past would rise again at once. Ah! I have experienced it already; one day I was singing a church chant in my room; all the past came up in my heart, and I nearly choked. That which I had fled from, that which I believed dead and buried, returned. You see a spiritual victory is not won so easily. Till one is 'dead to the world' one has many trials to pass through. It is only outsiders who imagine that peace reigns in a convent. If people could glance into our souls, they would see troubles and storms at the bottom of each. But these are only words! Come and see me, won't you?"

"Yes, certainly!" answered Sacha, stretching out her hand.

"I love you much, Sacha; you are honest. Au revoir. God be with you."

"Where are you going?" exclaimed the general's wife. "What! Without taking tea. I won't let you go. After tea they will put up for you a basket of preserves to take to the abbess, that good soul. She prefers quince-preserve. As for you, I don't offer you any; you have renounced all these luxuries; you no longer belong to this world!"

And once more her cheeks began to quiver and her green eyes grew moist.

"How charming you were at school! Tall, well-shaped, like a figure in Dresden china. Do you ever remember the school, Sister Helene?"

"Yes, of course," said Helene, with an abstracted air, only half-attending to her.

"I remember they had brought you from far away—the Caucasus, wasn't it? They had written to me, I remember."

The nun bent her head in order to hide her disturbance of mind. When she raised it again, she had grown still paler, and her sad eyes showed physical pain controlled with difficulty. But the general's wife, who never paused to notice anything, did not guess at her trouble. She had risen, and stuttering very fast, said, "This evening we will give you a musical treat. I know you love music, Helene, and that is not a sin. I think there was a saint—what was her name?"

"Saint Cecilia," said the governess.

"Yes, precisely. She was a musician, and yet she has been canonized; you will find it in books."

Helene remained. She felt an irresistible desire to hear music—something besides the human voice or the voice of her heart.

"Is it you who will play?" she said, approaching Sacha.

"Yes; tell me what you prefer; I only warn you that I don't play anything very serious."

"Play something that I have not yet heard; all that calls up associations of the past makes me feel poorly. During the four years that I have been at the convent you must have learnt many things which I don't know. You know, perhaps, Beethoven's Sonata 'Quasi una fantasia.'"

"Certainly. Would you like to hear it? 'It is an old piece that is always new,' our musical professor used to say."

"Yes. To-day I feel drawn to it, though I know it will make me suffer."

"Do you know that it is a little alarming to see you as a nun? Why should it be? Our family has been always given to religion; my grandmother entered a convent at the close of her days; and my mother spent her days in visiting the Holy Places."

Sacha went to the piano and the general's wife came and sat by Helene. She took her hands and said to her in a sentimental tone, "Do you remember how often we used to play duets at school?"

"We must confess that we played very badly," answered Helene with a smile.

"Yes, but the recollection is a delightful one. Do you remember the venerable Father who used to come to listen to us? Do you know I was quite in love with him! But pardon me; I forgot that before you.... Ah, you are quite removed from all that to-day, happy woman!"

"But are not you happy?"

"Non. Life is not what it appeared to us through the rose-coloured curtains of the school. I do not complain of my husband, but he is quite incapable of letting himself go or of becoming enthusiastic."

For a moment or two she shed tears, which she wiped away as Sacha struck her first notes.

Helene listened as though in a trance. God only knew how much the music recalled to her of that past which she thought had been blotted out. She saw once more her country, whose soil she would never tread again; she heard the murmurs of the plane-trees, the low warbling of the brooks; a more brilliant sun glowed in a deeper sky; she closed her eyes and would have liked to withdraw into herself, and see no more of her surroundings. The unutterable yearning and burning passion of the sonata struck painfully and without cessation on her suffering heart. For a long time she had believed that a day would come when the old story which she had confided to no one would be finally forgotten, when she would be able to look at her past with the same indifference with which one contemplates the mists of autumn or the snows of winter; then she would return to her own people content and serene; they would receive her with joy, not guessing what she had sacrificed for them. To-day, alas! she understood that it would be vain to seek to bury that past; it would always rise again as vivid and sad as ever. No, she would never be able to see her country again. Moreover time, solitude and mental sufferings would not be long in putting an end to her physical life. A few more years, and she would rest in her coffin with a visage as immovable as that of the Sister dead yesterday in the convent, who also had known suffering. But those happy people down there, happy in the country she loved so well, did they still remember her? Perhaps they had forgotten her or thought her already dead.

Under the stress of these thoughts her heavy black 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.

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 haloes cast their reflections on the austere faces of the saints who could scarcely be distinguished against their black background. Helene remembered the nights of prayer which her mother and grandmother had passed, prostrate at the foot of these same icons, and her sad heart was penetrated by a warm feeling of devotion. When she left her home these relics were the only things she had taken with her as they constituted a link with her past; they afforded her a refuge from her sad thoughts. But to-day, how could she get rid of them? She was incapable of praying; her lips murmured the familiar words, her hands made the sign of the cross, but there was no peace nor humility in her heart. She knelt down and closed her eyes, but prayer did not come. In spite of years and of distance, familiar faces surrounded her, and loved voices whispered in her ear, "How pale you are!" "Why did you leave us to go so far?"

As though she feared insulting the sanctity of the icons she put out the candles and went into the next room. She tried to tire herself out by walking up and down her cell, but in vain; the vision followed her. She did not struggle any more; like a swimmer at the end of his strength, she yielded to the rising waves which were carrying her far away to the land of memories.

The five years of struggles through which she had passed, those years of prayers and struggles, all disappeared; she no longer saw her black garments; even the walls of her cell had fallen; a whole world lay open before her. Yes, it was the past which transported her to its magic circle; she saw her youth again. Her sister Nina, with gentle trusting eyes, came to her and embraced her with her tender arms in order to tell her in broken tones a young girl's secrets. There was five years' difference between the two sisters; the younger one was eighteen. She, the elder, seemed somewhat too serious for her age; that perhaps was owing to the influence of her mother, to her continual visits to convents, and to that atmosphere of incense, prayer and meditation which had surrounded her from her earliest infancy. The younger sister grew up quite different; she was a butterfly who needed the sun, blue sky and flower-beds; her laughter rang clear, contagious and musical. Helene herself who had received the nickname "the nun," yielded to the charm of this child-like gaiety. What she loved best in the world was to sit at her window in the evening, listening to her sister telling her in her gentle voice her great joys and her little sorrows. Why then one day had she suddenly risen and pushed her away? Why had some words of her favourite made her treat harshly, were it only for a moment, this dear little bird who came to seek protection with her? What had the child said that its memory should still burn in her heart to-day?

Nina, with blushing and tears, had confessed to her that for two years she had been in love. When she uttered the name of the man she loved Helene had pushed her away so abruptly that the poor little thing had fallen against a piece of furniture. The "nun" remembered her mad fit of anger; without being touched by her sister's sobs, she shut herself in her room, refusing to open the door each time that Nina came and knocked at it.

On the morrow her anger had cooled and been succeeded by a sad tenderness, a profound remorse for her harshness. She went to her sister's room and found her asleep without having undressed, her cheeks still showing the traces of tears. She bent over her to embrace her. Nina flung her arms around her, whispering in her ear, with tears of joy this time:

"I knew that you would not long be vexed with me; there was no reason why you should be, I am no longer a child; I am eighteen; I could not hide it from you any longer."

"But he—how does he feel towards you?" interrupted Helene.

As she put this fateful question, she pressed her hand to her heart as though she feared it would betray her by its beating.

"I think ... he also loves me; he is so attentive, so affectionate in his manner."

Helene did not ask any more; she forced herself to smile, and till the hour of her departure, she was constantly with her sister; at the bottom of her heart she wished her to be happy, but in this same heart an icy despair was daily growing more intense.

"He has been affectionate and attentive to me also," she said to herself. Had she not seen his gaze constantly following her? Did not the very tone of his voice change when he spoke to her? She had deceived herself then! And indeed how could she, the taciturn "nun," hope to rival her graceful little sister? She had been blind, and worse than that—ridiculous. He loved Nina, and naturally had more smiles for her elder sister than for others.

Shortly after her sister's avowal, Helene went to pay a visit to some relatives, where she remained several days, considering what she should do. One moment she believed that he hesitated between her and Nina. But Nina had been entrusted to her care by her dying mother; could she ever come between her and her happiness? Never! Should she bring tears to those clear eyes? Should she ruin by her egotism "her child's" future? He might hesitate, but she must not! Only what should she do?

She had not to reflect long. Her mother had taught her to forget herself and accustomed her to the thought of self-sacrifice. Happiness bought at the cost of another's suffering could not be endurable, she said to herself. Even if he did not yet love Nina, she would entrust her to his care, at the moment of her departure, and love would soon follow. Her sister would not miss her; those who are in love do not need a third person. Her life, as far as she was concerned, was finished; she would never love again; natures like hers neither change nor forget. As for being present to witness the spectacle of this youthful happiness, that was beyond her power. Perhaps in course of time, when everything had settled down, she might return. At present she must go where they could not discover her, or even if they did so, not be able to bring her back into the world.

It was then that she recollected the peace that she thought she had seen pervading the convents which she had visited with her mother, and that devotional atmosphere which soothes those whom life has cheated. She recalled to memory the face of Sister Melanie, of whom it was said that she had lived through all the trials that can come upon a woman. How serene her face was and how grand and noble that once passionate heart!

After her absence, Helene, returning one evening to her house, found her sister and him in the garden. A nightingale was singing, and the flowers were exhaling their scents. She thought she saw on the faces of the two young people an expression of happiness. The next day she told her sister that she was leaving for Petrograd, and that their aunt would stay with her during her absence. She took leave of both for "a certain time" as she said, and ignored his melancholy air when she entrusted her little girl to his care. She wrote seldom from Petrograd; Nina's letters showed signs of ennui; Helene explained it to herself by the fact that the younger one had never been without her before. Later on, she left for a foreign country, and it was from thence that she announced to her family the unexpected news of her entering the convent; she was happy, she said, and wished them the same happiness; she would only write seldom, and perhaps would never return to Russia.

She did return, however, chose at random a small provincial town, entered a convent there as a novice, and disappeared from the world. She never knew if her family had looked for her; it was as though a curtain had dropped between her and her former life.

Since then five long sad years had passed. She hoped she had secured the happiness of those she loved, but she had not gained that sweet quietude, that healing forgetfulness which she had expected. On the contrary, her sadness increased with the lapse of time; memory became more active; through the most of her tears she no longer even saw the great ideal which was to safeguard her from herself. One single thought possessed her: she would never be able to return again to those she loved so well.

Sometimes, as she lay on her bed, her lean arms crossed over her breast, she said to herself, that one day she would be so stretched in her coffin, but then her sufferings would be ended, and death did not alarm her; she smiled at him as a prisoner smiles at the radiant hour of deliverance. But that hour came very slowly.

It was still dark when the bells rang for matins. Helene dressed herself quickly and went out. From all sides black figures were gliding in the shadow towards the lighted portal of the church. Some saluted her, others did not notice her. Silence reigned everywhere.

She went to efface herself in her favourite corner, in the shadow where she loved to stand, leaning her head against the cold wall. She did not succeed in attaining to forgetfulness; on the contrary her memories oppressed her, though she tried to lose herself in the contemplation of the gentle Virgin who seemed to regard her with pity. It would have been a relief if at least she could have shared her sorrow with some sister soul, but Sister Seraphine was the only one who passed and re-passed her, grumbling to herself as she went.

"Why do you stand there, like a statue? Make at any rate on your forehead the penitent's sign of the cross! They are a real sorrow, these young ones! You all have your eyes fixed on the holy pictures, but your hearts are elsewhere. Think of it, Sister Helene! At the hour of death you will be glad to pray, but then your hand will not have the power to make the sign of the holy cross." And the old woman disappeared behind the columns.

Helene went back to her room. It was still dark, and the gloom had invaded her soul also. Why was it that she was suffering to-day more than usual? Was it a presentiment which oppressed her heart? What was going to happen?

V

Six o'clock had just struck. The grey light of morning broke into the cell in which Helene walked up and down with a nervous step, casting from time to time a sad glance out of the window; she felt that to-day neither sleep nor calm would come to her. Olia, woken by the sound of her footsteps, had come several times to her door; but Helene had always sent her away, begging her not to be anxious about her.

There was nothing in her past with which she had to reproach herself. She had given all that she had. Why then did the consciousness of having acted rightly not bring her the peace for which she longed? Then, catching herself murmuring, she began to pray, but the prayer did not come from her heart. Her exhaustion caused her to feel giddy; she even rejoiced in this, seeing in it a sign of the torpor for which she craved. Passing into her inner room, she lay down on her bed, with her eyes closed, but sleep did not come. Dawn broadened into day, and the austere countenances of the icons seemed to be bent fixedly on poor Helene as she lay, deprived of strength. She made a movement and her hand touched the old newspapers in which the preserves sent by the general's wife had been wrapped. Hardly knowing what she did, she unfolded one of them, and glanced at it carelessly; the paper glided with a light rustle behind her bed; a vague desire to know what was going on in the world seized her; she took another sheet; her eye fell on the not very edifying details of a divorce case; she turned the page and found there, by a strange chance, a correspondent's letter from her native town of which she had heard nothing for so long. She saw that the date of this letter was that of the year in which she had left her country.

Scarcely had she glanced through some lines than her blood turned to ice in her veins and a chill pierced her heart. She uttered such a groan that Olia awoke with a start. As though she could not trust her eyes, poor Helene read the article a second time. Yes, they were there, those cursed lines! a thing more horrible than murder. She had not yet taken in the awfulness of it. A fit of frenzy seized her brain. She seized the newspaper and brandished it at the sacred pictures, saying, "There! There!"

What she had read was as follows:

"A tragedy has just disturbed our quiet provincial town. Two young girls of good society fell in love with the same young man; one was twenty-five, the other nineteen. There was an explanation between the two sisters: the elder did not wish to stand in the way of the happiness of the younger; she went away for good, telling her friends that she intended to enter a convent, and would never return. This is where the affair took a dramatic turn. The young man loved the girl who had gone away; he only waited for her return to declare himself. When he heard of the step she had taken, he applied to the authorities to be exchanged into another regiment, and went off without informing any one. This morning the younger of the two sisters was found dead in her room, killed by a pistol-shot. On the table was a short note:

"No! It is impossible! It is false! I am delirious!" exclaimed poor Helene, crushing the paper in her clenched hand. She went near the window in order to read again the fatal lines. They were indeed there; they did not disappear! Nothing took their place. They turned from black to red; they blazed like fire; they burned her heart!

Helene seized her black head-dress and bursting into wild laughter rushed towards the door. She herself had fastened it, but she imagined that some one was holding it from without, and shook it, sobbing and laughing at the same time. Then without hesitation she turned the key, went out, passed Olia who, pale as a sheet, gazed at her without comprehension and ran down the stairs uttering unintelligible sounds.

A moment after she was hammering at the closed door of the church and uttering maledictions to the great alarm of Sister Seraphine, who ran to tell the abbess, making the sign of the cross and crying, "Saints preserve us! It was not for nothing that the wind last night blew so fiercely against the windows. It is a real sin of these young ones."

At the sound of Helene's wild cries the other nuns, frightened and half-dressed, left their cells and ran in the raw cold of the morning to help their unhappy sister.

Alas! she had misunderstood!