Marion coloured a little, but then earnestly continued, “I don't mean any one who was young and thoughtless, but some grave, wise man, who saw your soul in your face, and learned, slowly and quietly, to love you for your goodness. Ay, in spite of—of”——(here the frank, plain-speaking Marion again hesitated a little, but continued boldly) “any little imperfection which may make you fancy yourself different to other people. If that is your sole reason for saying, as you did the other day, that”——
“Nay, Marion, you have talked quite enough of me.”
“But you will forgive me! I could hate myself if I have pained you, seeing how much I love you, how much every one learns to love you.”
“Is it so? Then I am very happy!” And the smile sat long upon her face.
“Can you guess whither I am taking you?” said Marion, as they paused before a large and handsome gateway. “Here is the Roman Catholic convent—beautiful St. Margaret's, the sweetest spot at Morningside. Shall we enter?”
Olive assented. Of late she had often thought of those old tales of forlorn women, who, sick of life, had hidden themselves from the world in solitudes like this. Sometimes she had almost wished she could do the same. A feeling deeper than curiosity attracted her to the convent of St. Margaret's.
It was indeed a sweet place; one that a weary heart might well long after. The whole atmosphere was filled with a soft calm—a silence like death, and yet a freshness as of new-born life. When the heavy door closed, it seemed to shut out the world; and without any sense of regret or loss, you passed, like a passing soul, into another existence.
They entered the little convent-parlour. There, on the plain, ungamished walls, hung the two favourite pictures of Catholic worship; one, thorn-crowned, ensanguined, but still Divine; the other, the Mother lifted above all mothers in blessedness and suffering. Olive gazed long upon both. They seemed meet for the place. Looking at them, one felt as if all trivial earthly sorrows must crumble into dust before these two grand images of sublime woe.
“I think,” said Miss Rothesay, “if I were a nun, and had known ever so great misery, I should grow calm by looking at these pictures.”
“The nuns don't pass their time in that way I assure you,” answered Marion M'Gillivray. “They spend it in making such things as these.” And she pointed to a case of babyish ornaments, pin-cushions, and artificial flowers.