CHAPTER XXXI.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume IV, Issue 201, 9 February 1877, Page 6

CHAPTER XXXI.

AFTER STORM COMES SUNSHINE. We must find Laura, whom we left with a weight of sorrow and remorse crushing her heart, and wearing like a fetter into her young life. With the impulsiveness of her nature, when the last hope of reconciliation with her husband had died out, she had denied the seclusion of the cloister, but this, with her husband still living, was impossible. She had buried the bitterness of her remorse, and found solace where the penitent one is never refused, and contented herself with a life nearly as secluded from society as if she had taken the vows of a religieuse. submitting her will, which had so nearly been a rock of shipwreck to her soul, to the guidance of good Father Roberts, dwellufg under the same roof with the orphans, spending herself and her means in the service of Christ s poor. She too was an orphan, her father having been brought to her from the battle-field in his coffin, and buried with military diiplay,

and thus the grave had shut down over her last hope from this world; the deep black she had worn after this heavy stroke she had never removed, she wore it still for her deeper grief, her more than widowhood. Letters from Miss Greenwood during her novitiate, and the society of Sister Agnes, were her chief worldly solace j now and then a glimpse of Bosine rewarded he patient wait ing, although her friend's lips were closed on the subject of deepest interest, both from a sense of delicacy and Captain Hartland's expressed wish. There came a time when these visits were more frequent — after Bosine returned from Hawthorndean the betrothed of Harry Greenwood. He had. from many interviews with his sister, imbibed her firm faith in Laura's innocence of the crime of which her husband held her guilty, and naturally he imparted this faith to his welliploved, who accepted it gladly as the echo of her own heart, so without comment or question from the still faithless Ned, interviews between Bosine and Laura were multiplied. Years of such suffering as Mrs. Hartland's could not fail to tell on her whole nature j spiritually it had brought her to a life of constant penance, leading her by the way of the Cross to the sure refuge of the disconsolate; physically, she had lost her bounding pulse and hearty laugh, her bold, fearless manner and self-assured step, and a shamefaced pensive shadow was fixed upon her countenance. A call was made at this time upon the religious houses of the north for the hospitals of one of the southern cities, where fever was raging. Miss Greenwood had just taken her final vows, and from henceforth we know her only as Sister Angela, She had been sent at once with a band of co-workers to New Orleans, and Laura wished to accompany the two sisters going from the House of the Infant Jesus to the same destination ; she wished to help, to be of some service, if she could not be one of them. Sister Agnes placed no obstacle in the way; perhaps a change might benefit her young friend, and Laura entered on her new position with something of her former energy, and the help and comfort of Sister Angela were like sweet flowers in the bleak desert of her life. Months of such work as she had never before known invigorated her mind and body, she saw others more abandoned than herself, and helped to soothe the misery of many a poor soul whose life was darker than her own. In time the yellow-fever increased to a pestilence, the panicstricken inhabitants fleeing in many instances, and leaving the dying and dead uncarad for. It was the mission of the Sisters to seek out these forsaken ones, as often in the houses of the wealthy as in the hovels of the poor ; all alike shared their succor. The hospitals were crowded, enclosures were improvised, where hundreds in every stage of this dire disease were brought for the tendci* offices of the religieuse. The enemy spared neither age, sex, rank, nor profession ; physicians were striken down in their efforts for others, and were carried to the charnel house in a few hours. Requiem masses were chanted for priests and Sisters who had fallen in the midst of their arduous labours. Laura looked with envy upon these shrouded martyrs, and worked with new vigor ; onerous duties had separated her from Sister Angela, who was called by her Superior to the care of some of the worst cases in the temporary hospital. A gentleman, evidently a man of wealth and position, had been found at dead of night in one of the large hotels, locked into his room in an advanced stage of this f earfnl fever, his friends and destiny unknown. Sister Angela had received him ; though every bed was filled, she found place for another amid the groans of the dying and the rattling of the death-cart. His appearance was melancholy in the extreme; his skin cold and clammy, presented the direful hue of the advanced patient, changing already from the bright orange to the dull brown ; the pulse was feeble and intermittent, and the breathing irregular and labored. He was in the vigor of manhood, with a foreign air, and evidently had been a man of mark ; now his words were few and incoherent, and his wandering eye singled out Sister Angela, and never left watching her as she smoothed his pillow, bathed his head and hands, and busied herself constantly in a subdued and quiet way for his comfort. The physician, as he looked at him, showed no hope in his face, and soon after whispered to his attendant, "He cannot last long ; if he has any thing to say to his friends, it should be said at once," and passed on to the next patient. Sister Angela bent over him to see if reason held her seat, that she might help, if possible, the soul in its death-struggle. Words came at length, and unexpectedly he spoke in English. " Dying, did he say ? " he enquired with a gasp. " Very low," replied the voice at his side. " Have you any words you would say ? " " But I must not die ! " he cried, grinding his teeth. " I'm young yet, and shall weather it." " God calls whom he pleases," was the reply, " and we have only to prepare to meet Him." " Mon JDieu ! " he exclaimed, with a sneer ; " I did not believe in Him. Ah, yes, I threw all that away long ago ) but I can't die," | he groaned, writhing and twisting in his cot. The Sister prayed for the poor wretch ; it was all there was left to do. "Message for friends," he continued. "Message! did he say P I have none, all lost,— jperdit /" He turned to the wall for a moment and was quiet. Sister Angela thought he might sleep, and attempted .to go to the next cot, when she heard a low stifled groan, and the sick man rose wildly, tearing away the curtains and sinking back. "Don't you leave me ! " he* cried frantically, clutching the Sister's dress as she returned. "He says I must speak ; yes, I have something to say —pencil — paper." The articles were at hand. " You don't know me P " the Sister shook her head. " I know you," he muttered, fixing upon her his piercing black eyes, over which the film of death had not yet gathered. "Yes, there is one wrong I must right; it may help me there, if there be any hereafter." He grew feeble, faltered, and sank under the exertion. Stimulants were applied, and Sister Angela waited, with her patient, prayerful spirit

till he should again speak. "Write," he said at length, "his name," he added, trying to raise himself on his elbow.