“The direction,” said Richard, too eager to be civil.  “How am I to get there?”

The Doctor pulled over a pocket-case of loose papers, and at last found one, which he handed his companion.

“I give you three quarters of an hour to get back,” he said.  “I will stay here till then, at all events.  Do not waste any time—­nor spare any eloquence,” he added to himself, as Richard hurried from the room.

CHAPTER XIX

SISTER MADELINE.

     Yes! it is well for us:  from these alarms,
     Like children scared, we fly into thine arms;
     And pressing sorrows put our pride to rout
     With a swift faith which has not time to doubt.

     Faber.

     Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend
     Towards a higher object.  Love was given,
     Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end;
     For this the passion to excess was driven—–­
     That self might be annulled; her bondage prove
     The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.

     Wordsworth.

The next thing that I recall, is rousing from slumber, or something related to slumber, and seeing a tall woman in the dress of a sister, standing by my bed.  It was night, and there was a lamp upon a table near.  The unusual dress, and the unfamiliarity of her whole appearance, made me start and stare at her, half raising myself in the bed.

“Why did you come here?” I said.  “Who sent for you?”

“I came because you were sick and suffering, and I was sent in the Name ——­” and bending her head slightly, she said a Name too sacred for these pages.

I gave a great sigh of relief, and sank back on my pillow.  Her answer satisfied me, for I was not able to reason.  I let her hold my hand; and all through that dark and troubled time submitted to her will, and desired her presence, and was soothed by her voice and touch.

Sister Madeline was not at all the ideal sister, being tall and dark, and with nothing peculiarly devotional or pensive in her cast of feature.  Her face was a fine, earnest one.  Her movements were full of energy and decision, though not quick or sharp.  The whole impression left was that of one by nature far from humility, tenderness, devotion; but, by the force of a magnificent faith, made passionately humble, devout from the very heart, more than humanly compassionate and tender.

I never felt toward her as if she were “born so”—­but as if she were rescued from the world by some great effort or experience; as if it were all “made ground,” reclaimed from nature by infinite patience and incessant labor.  She lived the life of an angel upon the earth.  I never saw her, by look, by word, or tone, transgress the least of the commandments, so wonderful was the curb she held over all her human feelings.  Nor was this perfection attained by a sudden and grand sacrifice; the consecration of herself to the religious life was not the “single step ’twixt earth and heaven,” but it was attained by daily and hourly study—­by the practice of a hundred self-denials—­by the most accurate science of spiritual progress.