THE AMERICAN
brown cloaks—so the femme de chambre told me—that you would n't use for a horse-blanket. And the poor Countess was so fond of soft-feeling dresses; she would never have anything stiff! They sleep on the ground," Mrs. Bread went on; "they're no better, no better"—and she hesitated for a comparison—"they're no better than tinkers wives. They give up everything, down to the very name their poor old nurses called them by. They give up father and mother, brother and sister—to say nothing of other persons," Mrs. Bread delicately added. "They wear a shroud under their brown cloaks and a rope round their waists, and they get up on winter nights and go off into cold places to pray to the Virgin Mary. I hope it does her at least good!"
Newman's visitor, dwelling on these terrible facts, sat dry-eyed and pale, her hands convulsive but confined to her satin lap. He gave a melancholy groan and fell forward, burying his face and his pain. There was a long silence, broken only by the ticking of the great gilded clock on the chimney-piece. "Where is the accursed place—where is the convent?" he asked at last, looking up.
"There are two houses," said Mrs. Bread. "I found out; I thought you 'd like to know—though it's cold comfort, I think. One's in the Avenue de Messine; they've learned the Countess is there. The other's in the Rue d'Enfer. That's a terrible name; I suppose you know what it means."
He got up and walked away to the end of his long room. When he came back Mrs. Bread had risen and stood by the fire with folded hands. Tell me
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