CHAP. II. "Too late Repentance comes not: E'en on the bed of death, when spectre fear, Peoples the gloom, she calms the fever'd start, THE tapers gleamed upon the death-cold face, the requiem for peace had died away, yet still audibly sounded the sobs of the sisterhood. They were assembled around the bier of the departed Laurette; their hands were still clasped, their hearts were still elevated in prayer; yet did the last mournful moments linger, and mock each effort at composure; yet did the anguished struggles of nature, the the piteous supplication for mercy, dwell upon the ear, and baffle the appeal for resignation. Long drooping beneath the endurance of severe penance, long the despairing victim of remorse, the suffering Laurette, shrinking from the voice of comfort, from the alleviations of sympathy, had courted the woe of solitude, and the mortifications of restriction. Gradual had been the approach of dissolution; yet the spirit humbled not with the flesh; she felt the rapid inroads of disease; yet with that inconsistency which had ever marked her character, did she firmly resist the exordiums of the mother-superior. It was at the close of devotion, in which, with more than usual fervour, she had joined the psalmody of the sisters, that supported by the arm of Louisine, she she repaired to her favourite avenue of cypress in the garden: the moon was slowly rising, and the dark clouds, gathering o'er her disk, ever and anon eclipsed her brightness. The dark eyes of the nun were fixed upon it; her veil was thrown back, and as the softened tint reflected on her features, it gave them an expression of more than usual sadness; she seemed lost in self-communion-she seemed revising the "deeds of other years," and courting the gnawing canker melancholy; and when Louisine gently chided the indulgence, she started, and heaved a sigh of the most bitter sorrow. "Let us return," implored Louisine; "sister, the dew rises, and the languor of debility demands caution." Laurette smiled-" Dost think," she faintly murmured, " caution can repair the the ravages of remorse ?-dost think it can bind the bleeding wounds of memory, or heal the anguish of a breaking heart ?" "No, but it can restore health," said Louisine, " and lengthen the salutary years of penance." My years-my days-my hours are drawing to a close," solemnly rejoined the nun; "soon will the casual step press upon my grave, nor mark, e'en with a sigh, where my remains shall moulder. Alas! as I have lived unblessed, so shall I die unmourned." "Not unmourned-not unpitied," exclaimed Louisine; and the starting tear fell unchecked upon her bosom ; compassion will note ever the silent restingplace, and prayer will humbly plead the dawn of mercy.' The The nun breathed a shuddering sigh; she raised her clasped hands to Heaven, then, drawing her veil over her face, paused irresolute. Suddenly she grasped the hand of Louisine, and pointed to the silver moon- "There no secrets are hid," she articulated, "there our deeds are registered. Weak girl! you know not the wretch for whom your prayers would crave-you know not the damning deed. which presses on her soul!" Louisine shuddered, for still the heavy hand of the nun rested on her arm; and though her features were hid, her voice, her action, betrayed her feelings-" Louisine, can the busy instigator of murder hope for peace?" she continued-" can tears wash away the stain of blood?-can remorse find favour in the sight of Heaven ?" "We are told atonement never comes too |