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 preternatural chill in the faint sunlight, crept the horror of this death in life. Strangely enough he felt at one and the same time a repugnance to his own nature of flesh and a triumphant delight in the possession of bodily health, liberty—the liberty of the world—and a mind unfettered by tradition.
A few feet from the entrance an aged nun stepped from behind a hedge-row of shrubbery and confronted them.
"Will you state your business?" she said, coldly, glancing at Helm and fixing her eyes on Ezra, who for reply merely nodded to Helm.
"I am a stranger in this part of the country, and heard that I would be allowed to visit the convent."
"Are you a Catholic?"
"No; I am a Protestant."
"Are you acquainted with any of the young ladies in the convent?"
"I am not."
She looked him through and through. He met her scrutiny with frank unconsciousness.
"Will you come in? I will take your name to the Mother Superior."
They followed her into a small reception-room, and sat for a long time waiting. Then an inner door opened, and another aged nun, sweet-faced and gentle, entered and greeted them pleasantly, recognizing Ezra as an acquaintance.
"Another Sister will be sent to accompany us," she said, and sat down to wait, talking naturally the while
