On the margin of the paper were a few penciled words in her own handwriting:  “I have found the reality.”  This was all.

I shall never see her again unless I go to Rome, and then only through a grating, or in the presence of others like herself, for she has taken the black veil, and retired behind a shadow deep as that cast from the cypress-shaded tomb.  Yet, under existing circumstances, and in consideration of her early experiences which no success nor later future could obliterate, or render less unendurable, I believe she has chosen the wiser part.

Peace be with thee, Bertie, whether in earth or in heaven!

EDITOR’S Note.—...  Some years after the closing of Miriam Monfort’s Retrospect, the civil war broke out in the United Stales, and Pope Pius IX was pleased to grant permission to several American nuns, Southern ladies, whose vocation was religious, to visit their own States, and lend what succor, spiritual and physical, they could to the wounded and dying, on the battle-fields and in the Confederate camps.  Among these came the Sister Ursula, from the convent of the Cartusians, known once as Lavinia, or Bertie La Vigne.  She was particularly fearless and efficient, and was killed by a cannon-ball at Shiloh while kneeling beside a dying officer, ascertained to be her sister’s husband, the gallant George Gaston of the Seventh Georgia.  By order of Colonel Favraud, they were buried in one grave.  He best knew wherefore this was done.

Our home overlooks the calm bay of Sun Francisco, standing, as it does, on an eminence, surrounded with stately forest-trees, and dark from a distance with evergreens which trail their majestic branches over roods of lawn.

These trees have ever been a passion with me.  I love their aromatic odors, reminding one of balm and frankincense, and the great Temple of Solomon itself, built of fine cedar-wood.  I admire their stately symmetry, and the majesty of their unchanging presence, and stand well pleased and invigorated in their shadow.

Our house is built of stone, and faced with white marble brought from beyond the seas.  Its architectural details are composite, and yet of dream-like beauty and perfection.

There are statues and blooming plants in the great lower corridors and porticos, and vast hall of entrance, oval and open to the roof, with its marble gallery surrounding it and suspended midway, secured by its exquisite and lace-like screen of iron balustrading.  Pictures of the great modern masters adorn the walls.

The skylight above floods the whole house with sunshine at the touching of a cord, which controls the venetians that in summer-time shade the halls below; and the parlors, and saloon, and library, and dining-room, and the quiet, spacious chambers above-stairs, are all admirably proportioned and finished, and furnished as well, for the comfort of those that abide in them—­hosts and guests.

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