"Am I myself? Dreaming? Or is it insanity?"

It is a young girl who thus strangely interrogates, a beautiful girl, woman grown, of tall stature, with bright face, and a wealth of hair, golden hued.

But what is beauty to her with all these adjuncts? As the flower born to blush unseen, eye of man may not look upon hers, though it is not wasting its sweetness on the desert air, but within the walls of a convent.

An English girl, though the convent is in France—in the city of Boulogne-sur-mer; the same in whose attached pensionnat the sister of Major Mahon is receiving education. She is not the girl, for Kate Mahon, though herself beautiful, is no blonde—instead, the very opposite. Besides, this creature of radiant complexion is not attending school: she is beyond the years for that. Neither is she allowed the freedom of the streets, but kept shut up within a cell in the innermost recesses of the establishment, where the pensionnaires are not permitted, save one or two who are favourites with the Lady Superior.

A small apartment the young girl occupies—bed-chamber and sitting-room in one; in short, a nun's cloister—furnished, as such are, in a style of austere simplicity: pallet bed along the one side, the other taken up by a plain deal dressing-table, a washstand with jug and basin—these little bigger than tea-bowl and ewer—and a couple of common rush-bottom chairs; that is all.

The walls are lime-washed, but most of their surface is concealed by pictures of saints, male and female; while the mother of all is honoured by an image, having a niche to itself, in a corner.

On the table are some four or five books, including a Testament and Missal; their bindings, with the orthodox cross stamped upon them, proclaiming the nature of the contents. A literature that cannot be to the liking of the present occupant of the cloister, since she has been there several days without turning over a single leaf, or even taking up one of the volumes to look at it.

That she is not there with her own will, but against it, can be told by her words, and as their tone, her manner while giving utterance to them. Seated upon the side of the bed, she has sprung to her feet, and with arms raised aloft and tossed about, strides distractedly over the floor. One seeing her thus might well imagine her to be, what she half fancies herself, insane!—a supposition strengthened by an unnatural lustre in her eyes, and a hectic flush on her cheeks, unlike the hue of health. Still, not as with one suffering bodily sickness, or any physical ailment, but more as from a mind diseased. Seen for only a moment—that particular moment—such would be the conclusion regarding her. But her speech coming after, tells she is in full possession of her senses, only under terrible agitation, distraught with some great trouble.

"It must be a convent! But how have I come into it? Into France, too; for surely am I there? The woman who brings my meals is French. So the other—Sister of Mercy, as she calls herself, though she speaks my own tongue. The furniture—bed, table, chairs, washstand—everything of French manufacture. And in all England there is not such a jug and basin as those!"

Regarding the lavatory utensils—so diminutive as to recall "Gulliver's travels in Lilliput," if ever read by her—she for a moment seems to forget her misery, even in its very midst, and keenest, at sight of the ludicrous and grotesque.

It is quickly recalled, as her glance, wandering around the room, again rests on the little statue—not of marble, but a cheap plaster of Paris cast—and she reads the inscription underneath, "La MÈre de Dieu." The symbols tell her she is inside a nunnery, and upon the soil of France!

"Oh, yes!" she exclaims, "'tis certainly so! I am no more in my native land, but have been carried across the sea!"

The knowledge, or belief, does nought to tranquillize her feelings, or explain the situation, to her all mysterious. Instead, it but adds to her bewilderment, and she once more exclaims, almost repeating herself,—

"Am I myself? Is it a dream? Or have my senses indeed forsaken me?"

She clasps her hands across her forehead, the white fingers threading the thick folds of her hair, which hangs dishevelled. She presses them against her temples, as if to make sure her brain is still untouched!

It is so, or she would not reason as she does.

"Everything around shows I am in France. But how came I to it? Who has brought me? What offence have I given God or man, to be dragged from home, from country, and confined—imprisoned! Convent, or whatever it be, imprisoned I am! The door constantly kept locked! That window, so high, I cannot see over its sill! The dim light it lets in telling it was not meant for enjoyment. Oh! Instead of cheering, it tantalizes—tortures me!"

Despairingly she reseats herself upon the side of the bed, and with head still buried in her hands, continues her soliloquy—no longer of things present, but reverting to the past.

"Let me think again! What can I remember? That night, so happy in its beginning, to end as it did! The end of my life, as I thought, if I had a thought at that time. It was not, though, or I shouldn't be here, but in heaven, I hope. Would I were in heaven now! When I recall his words—those last words and think——"

"Your thoughts are sinful, child!"

The remark, thus interrupting, is made by a woman, who appears on the threshold of the door, which she had just pushed open. A woman of mature age, dressed in a floating drapery of deep black—the orthodox garb of the Holy Sisterhood, with all its insignia of girdle, bead-roll, and pendant crucifix. A tall, thin personage, with skin like shrivelled parchment, and a countenance that would be repulsive but for the nun's coif, which, partly concealing, tones down its sinister expression. Withal, a face disagreeable to gaze upon; not the less so from its air of sanctity, evidently affected. The intruder is Sister Ursule.

She has opened the door noiselessly—as cloister doors are made to open—and stands between its jambs, like a shadowy silhouette in its frame, one hand still holding the knob, while in the other is a small volume, apparently well thumbed. That she has had her ear to the keyhole before presenting herself is told by the rebuke having reference to the last words of the girl's soliloquy, in her excitement uttered aloud.

"Yes," she continues, "sinful—very sinful! You should be thinking of something else than the world and its wickedness, and of anything before that you have been thinking of—the wickedness of all."

She thus spoken to had neither started at the intrusion, nor does she show surprise at what is said. It is not the first visit of Sister Ursule to her cell, made in like stealthy manner; nor the first austere speech she has heard from the same skinny lips. At the beginning she did not listen to it patiently; instead, with indignation—defiantly, almost fiercely, rejoining. But the proudest spirit can be humbled. Even the eagle, when its wings are beaten to exhaustion against the bars of its cage, will become subdued, if not tamed. Therefore the imprisoned English girl makes reply meekly and appealingly,—

"Sister of Mercy, as you are called, have mercy upon me! Tell me why I am here?"

"For the good of your soul and its salvation."

"But how can that concern any one save myself?"

"Ah! there you mistake, child; which shows the sort of life you've been hitherto leading, and the sort of people surrounding you; who, in their sinfulness, imagine all as themselves. They cannot conceive that there are those who deem it a duty—nay, a direct command from God—to do all in their power for the redemption of lost sinners, and restoring them to his Divine favour. He is all-merciful."

"True—He is. I do not need to be told it. Only, who these redemptionists are that take such interest in my spiritual welfare, and how I have come to be here, surely I may know?"

"You shall in time, ma fille. Now you cannot—must not—for many reasons."

"What reasons?"

"Well, for one, you have been very ill—nigh unto death, indeed."

"I know that, without knowing how."

"Of course. The accident which came near depriving you of your life was of that sudden nature; and your senses——But I mustn't speak further about it. The doctor has given strict directions that you're to be kept quiet, and it might excite you. Be satisfied with knowing that they who placed you here are the same who saved your life, and would now rescue your soul from perdition. I've brought you this little volume for perusal. It will help to enlighten you."

She stretches out her long bony fingers, handing the book—one of those "Aids to Faith" relied upon by the apostles of the Propaganda.

The girl mechanically takes it, without looking at or thinking of it; still pondering upon the unknown benefactors, who, as she is told, have done so much for her.

"How good of them!" she rejoins, with an air of incredulity, and in tones that might be taken as derisive.

"How wicked of you!" retorts the other, taking it in this sense. "Positively ungrateful!" she adds, with the acerbity of a baffled proselytiser. "I am sorry, child, you still cling to your sinful thoughts, and keep up a rebellious spirit in face of all that is being done for your good. But I shall leave you now, and go and pray for you; hoping, on my next visit, to find you in a more proper frame of mind."

So saying, Sister Ursule glides out of the cloister, drawing to the door, and silently turning the key in its lock.

"O God!" groans the young girl in despair, flinging herself along the pallet, and for the third time interrogating, "Am I myself, and dreaming? Or am I mad? In mercy, Heaven, tell me what it means!"