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The convent, as the young man—somewhat incorrectly—
called the dwelling of the “Sisters of Mercy,” stood
just upon the brow of the ascent, beyond the arch spanning
the ravine. It was even then an old house, and
was, perhaps, as finely finished in its “woodwork” as any
building in the whole valley of Virginia. The former
possessor was one of those free and joyous spirits who fill
their mansions with gayety and music, and entertain all
the world:—welcoming every new comer in the old openhanded,
free, true-hearted style.

In those days the rooms echoed to merry measures,
danced to by merry feet, and merry laughter flowing
from glad merry hearts. Now the Sisters of Mercy—a
charitable society of Catholic ladies—had possession; and
though they had a school for girls there, there was little
merriment. Max had called it a convent; he was not
far from the mark, since Mrs. Courtlandt the superior,
had the reputation of being very strict in her ideas of a
superior's duties; and scarcely ever permitted the young
ladies—Protestant and Catholic—placed under her care
to receive visitors from the town.

This redoubtable castle, commanded by this terrible
ogress, as Mrs. Courtlandt was reputed to be—whether
justly or unjustly we shall see—Max was on the point of
taking by assault.

He ran up the steps and gave a thundering knock. A

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neatly dressed servant girl, her face composed into a prim
and grave expression, replied to his summons; but at
sight of Max this primness disappeared, and the grave
face relaxed into a smile.

“Oh, how set up you looked, when you thought I was
somebody else!” cried Max, gayly.

“Who do you want to see, Mr. Max?” asked the girl,
laughing; “not—”

Max drew himself up.

“Miss Prudence,” he said, “I am surprised that you—
a staid New England lady—should ask me such a question.”

“Oh, I thought—”

“Who should I wish to see in this establishment—this
convent—”

“Certainly nobody, but—”

“My much-loved—”

“Oh, I knew you were in love with her!” cried Miss
Prudence, giggling.

“In love with her!”

“She's the nicest person here.”

“Certainly she is, Prudence.”

“The prettiest, too.”

“Hum! I don't know—”

“I'll tell her that!”

“Tell whom?”

“Miss Josephine!”

“Josephine—Josephine—tell her what?”

“That you said somebody else was prettier, Mr. Max.”

“Who said any thing about Josephine!”

“You!”

“Me?”

“Certainly.”

“Why, I came here to see aunt Courtlandt.”

“You said she was the nicest person here; you know
you meant Miss Josephine.”

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“Prudence, you belie your name. Miss Prudence,
your proper designation would be Miss Mischief. I request
Miss Prudence, that you will at once tell my respected
aunt I have come to see her.”

“Your respected aunt is ready to see you,” said a
voice from the right-hand room.

“Oh! Mr. Max,” whispered the girl, “she heard every
word I said!”

“Certainly she did,” replied Max, coolly.

And leaving Miss Prudence somewhat abashed, he entered
the apartment where the dreaded Mrs. Courtlandt
waited to receive him.

She was a woman of thirty five or forty, tall, masculine,
and severe in deportment; but from her black eyes shone
a world of latent good-humor and charity. Mrs. Courtlandt
was one of those persons whose real characters
are wholly concealed by their outward appearance, an
who consequently have the reputation, with the thoughtless
and surface-judging world, of being just what they
abhor and are the most removed from. In ordinary society,
she seemed the farthest possible removed from gayety
or cheerfulness—in reality, there was not one particle of
sternness in her character. She was cheerful, charitable,
loving;—if her natural gayety, and girlish lightness were
gone, there was good reason for it in that misfortune
which had chilled her heart for years. But with this
our story has nothing whatever to do.

Mrs. Courtlandt was certainly eccentric, however: her
dress, for instance, was sui generis. It consisted of an
upper garment, which bore a striking resemblance to a
man's sack coat;—a very short skirt apparently of broadcloth;—
and on her feet (her enemies—who has them not?—
whispered), the usual feminine slippers were replaced
by—boots! Perhaps this report had its origin in Mrs.
Courtlandt's fearless mode of riding on her numerous
errands as a Sister of Mercy;—perhaps there really was

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some foundation for the charge: we shall see. Magnificent
black hair cut short and closely confined by a silken
net of the same color, gave a stately expression to the
face of the lady, whose portrait we have thus made an
attempt to sketch.

“Well, Max,” said Mrs. Courtlandt, rising from her
seat, “pray what were you saying to Prudence about
`nice people?”'

“Oh, aunt,” said Max, taking the offered hand with a
mixture of affection and respect, “you heard us, did you?”

“Certainly, the door was open.”

“What did you hear?” continued Max, desiring, like
a cautious diplomatist, to sound the depths of the enemy's
knowledge.

“I heard you say you had come to see the `nicest person
in the convent.”'

“That was you, you know, aunt,” said Max, laughing.

“Nonsense!”

“Not you?”

“Decidedly not.”

“Who then, aunt?”

“Josephine Emberton, perhaps.”

“Josephine! oh, aunt, what could put such an idea in
your head?”

“Were you not talking about her with Prudence just
now?”

Max had forgotten this small circumstance.

“Why yes, we certainly were, dear aunt—I now recollect.
But you must have heard my reply to Prudence—
who, by-the-by, aunt, is a remarkably pleasant young
lady; I never saw less of the ducnna—you know the
maids in Spain are called duennas—I've been reading a
novel lately, all about that—and—”

“What a tongue you have, Max; you talk too much;
but, after all perhaps it is better that the excess should
be in that than in the other direction.”

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“Do you think I shall make a lawyer?”

“I hope so.”

“If I could only turn out a credit to the family now,
aunt,” said Max, smiling.

“I think you will, Max,” his aunt replied, with an almost
affectionate glance at her nephew, “you are a great
rattle-trap, but have very good sense.”

“Do you really think so, my dearest aunt—you delight
me; though confidentially speaking, I never have considered
myself a perfect dunce.”

“When do you apply for your license to practice?”

“Not for a year still—but I am already `retained'—
that is the word with us lawyers, aunt!” said Max; “I'm
already engaged in a suit—though not exactly at law.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm engaged to defend somebody.”

“Who, in the world?”

“Juliet, aunt—I shall have opposed to me, Paris, whom
it is arranged beforehand I shall overcome.”

“What an inveterate jester you are! Well, I have
heard something of this. Come and tell me all about
it in my lecture-room. I wish to try some experiments
while the children are playing in the garden.”

And Mrs. Courtlandt with stately gait led the way to
the lecture-room beyond.

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