“Bring me no pearls to bind my hair,
  No sparkling jewels bring to me! 
  Dearer by far the blood-red rose
  That speaks of Him who died for me.

  “Ah! vanish every earthly love,
  All earthly dreams forgotten be! 
  My heart is gone beyond the stars,
  To live with Him who died for me.”

“Hear you now, sister,” said the monk, “how the Lord keeps the door of this maiden’s heart?  There is no fear of her; and I much doubt, sister, whether you would do well to interfere with the evident call this child hath to devote herself wholly to the Lord.”

“Oh, you talk, brother Antonio, who never had a child in your life, and don’t know how a mother’s heart warms towards her children and her children’s children!  The saints, as I said, must be reasonable, and oughtn’t to be putting vocations into the head of an old woman’s only staff and stay; and if they oughtn’t to, why, then, they won’t.  Agnes is a pious child, and loves her prayers and hymns; and so she will love her husband, one of these days, as an honest woman should.”

“But you know, sister, that the highest seats in Paradise are reserved for the virgins who follow the Lamb.”

“Maybe so,” said Elsie, stiffly; “but the lower seats are good enough for Agnes and me.  For my part, I would rather have a little comfort as I go along, and put up with less in Paradise, (may our dear Lady bring us safely there!) say I.”

So saying, Elsie raised the large, square basket of golden fruit to her head, and turned her stately figure towards the scene of her daily labors.

The monk seated himself on the garden-wall, with his portfolio by his side, and seemed busily sketching and retouching some of his ideas.  Agnes wound some silvery-white flax round her distaff, and seated herself near him under an orange-tree; and while her small fingers were twisting the flax, her large, thoughtful eyes were wandering off on the deep blue sea, pondering over and over the strange events of the day before, and the dreams of the night.

“Dear child,” said the monk, “have you thought more of what I said to you?”

A deep blush suffused her cheek as she answered,—­

“Yes, uncle; and I had a strange dream last night.”

“A dream, my little heart?  Come, then, and tell it to its uncle.  Dreams are the hushing of the bodily senses, that the eyes of the Spirit may open.”

“Well, then,” said Agnes, “I dreamed that I sat pondering as I did last evening in the moonlight, and that an angel came forth from the trees”—­

“Indeed!” said the monk, looking up with interest; “what form had he?”

“He was a young man, in dazzling white raiment, and his eyes were deep as eternity, and over his forehead was a silver flame, and he bore a lily-stalk in his hand, which was like what you told of, with light in itself.”

“That must have been the holy Gabriel,” said the monk, “the angel that came to our blessed Mother.  Did he say aught?”