with certain similar objects that were lately, if they are not now, exhibited for the benefit of the Dean and Chapter of Westminster Abbey, above the tombs of the Plantagenets, and almost in contact with that marvel of gothic art, Henry VII’s. chapel!  It is said that “misery makes a man acquainted with strange bed-fellows.”  So, it would seem, do shillings and sixpences.  To return to Kitty:  After admiring divers beauties, such as the New York Beauty, the South Carolina Beauty, and the Pennsylvania Beauty, she fastened her own pretty eyes on a nun, wondering who a female in such an attire could be.  In 1803, a nun and a nunnery would be almost as great curiosities, in America, as a rhinoceros, though the country has since undergone some changes in this respect.

“Grandmother,” exclaimed Kitty, “who can that lady be—­it isn’t Lady Washington, is it?”

“It looks more like a clergyman’s wife, Kitty,” answered the worthy Mrs. Wetmore, not a little ‘non-plushed,’ herself, as she afterwards admitted.  “I should think Madam Washington went more gaily dressed, and looked happier like.  I’m sure if any woman could be happy, it was she!”

“Ay,” answered her son, “there is truth in that remark.  This woman, here, is what is called a nun in the Roman Catholic quarters of the world.”

“A nun!” repeated little Kitty.  “Isn’t that the sort of woman that shuts herself up in a house, and promises never to get married, uncle?”

“You’re quite right, my dear, and it’s matter of surprise to me how you should pick up so many useful idees, in an out-of-the-way place, like Willow Cove.”

“It was not out of your way, uncle,” said Kitty, a little reproachfully, “or you never would have found us.”

“In that partic’lar it was well enough, my dear.  Yes, a nun is a sort of she-hermit, a breed that I detest altogether.”

“I suppose, Kitty,” I inquired, “you think it wicked in man or woman to take a vow never to get married.”

The poor girl blushed, and she turned away from the nun without making any reply.  No one can say what turn the conversation might have taken, had not the grandmother’s eye fell on an indifferent copy of Leonardo’s celebrated picture of the Last Supper, receiving at the same time a printed explanation, one got up by some local antiquary, who had ventured to affix names to the different personages of the group, at his own suggestion.  I pointed out the principal figure of the painting, which is sufficiently conspicuous by the way, and then referred the good woman to the catalogue for the rest of the names.

“Bless me, bless me!” exclaimed the worthy mother, “that I should live ever to see paintings of such people!  Kitty, my dear, this bald-headed old man is St. Peter.  Did you ever think that St. Peter was bald!  And there is St. John, with black eyes.—­Wonderful, wonderful, that I should ever live to see likenesses of such blessed men!”