"Claire, you break my heart when you talk so!"
"Oh! no," said Claire, gently, "I am very sure that I do not break your heart; and if I sadden you a little, that is necessary; but it will not last long. There is no need to think of it now, however; only think that you and Helen and I will pass a few happy days together—for I suppose Mr. Singleton will not be much of a drawback—before we start on another and a different beginning of life from that on which we entered when we left our dear convent."
EPILOGUE.
A year from the summer day when three girls had stood together on the eve of parting in their convent school-room, the same three were seated together on the shores of the Lago di Como. The garden of the hotel in which they were staying extended to the verge of the lake, and they had found a lovely leafy nook, surrounded by oleander and myrtle, with an unobstructed view over the blue sparkling water and the beautiful shores, framed by mountains.
"A year ago to-day!" said Marion, meditatively, after a pause of some length. "Do you remember how we wondered when and where we should be together again? And here we are, with an experience behind us which is full of dramatic changes and full of instructions—at least for me."
"Certainly for me also," observed Helen. "Looking back on what I passed through, I realize clearly how foolish we are to regret the loss of things that seem to us desirable, but which God knows to be just the reverse. How miserable I was for a time! Yet that very misery was paving the way for my present happiness."
"Very directly," said Marion, "yet it is something I do not like to think of; for it might all have ended so differently but for the mercy of God—and yours too, Helen. You deserve happiness, because you were so gentle and generous under unhappiness. As for me, I deserve nothing good, yet I have gained a great deal—the gift of faith, relief from self-reproach, and the great pleasure of being here with you and Claire."
Claire looked at the speaker with a smile. "The pleasure of being together is one that we all share," she said; "and also, I think, the sense of great gratitude to God. How much have I, for instance, to be grateful for—I who a year ago went forth into the world with so much reluctance—that the way has been made so clear to my feet; that I have now such a sense of peace, such a conviction of being in the right path!"
The others did not answer. It was hard for them—particularly hard for Marion—to give full sympathy on this point; for the pain of impending separation was hanging over them, and not even their recognition of the peace of which Claire spoke could make them altogether willing to see her pass out of their lives forever. There is the irrrevocableness and therefore the pain of death in such partings, intensified by the fact that just in proportion as a character is fitted for the religious life does it possess the virtues to endear it most to those associated with it in the world. In such cases renunciation is not altogether on one side; and although Marion had struggled for the strength to make this renunciation, she could not yet control herself sufficiently to speak of it. Her own future looked very blank to her, although it had been decided that she should remain with Helen, at least for a time, when Claire left them.