But I am wandering from my story.  Would that I might forever wander from it—­that I might at once blot from memory’s page, the fearful recollection that must follow me to my grave!  Yet, painful as it is to rehearse the past, if I can but awaken your sympathy for other sufferers, if I can but excite you to efforts for their deliverance, it is all I ask.  I shall have my reward.  But to return to my story.

The Abbess saw how deeply I was grieved, and immediately left the room.  St. Bridget told me not to cry, for she would be a mother to me as long as I remained with her, and she was true to her promise.  Another sister, who sometimes came to my room, I believe was crazy.  She would run up to my bed, put her hand on me, and burst into a loud and hearty laugh.  This she repeated as often as she came, and I told the Abbess one day, I did wish that sister would not come to see me, for she acted so strange, I was afraid of her.  She replied, “do not care for her; she always does just so, but we do not mind her; you must be careful what you say,” she continued, “for if you speak of her before any of the sisters, they may get you into trouble.”

When I began to get better, I had a sharp appetite for food, and was hungry a great part of the time.  One of the sisters used to bring me a piece of bread concealed under her cape and hide it under my pillow.  How she obtained it, I do not know, unless she saved it from her own allowance.  It was very easy for her to hide it in this way, for the nuns always walk with one hand under their cape and the other by the side.  Truly, in this instance, “bread eaten in secret” was “pleasant.”  Of all the luxuries I ever tasted, those stolen bits of bread were the sweetest.

During my illness I thought a great deal about my father, and wondered why he did not come to see me, as he had promised.  I used to cry for him in my sleep, and very often awoke in tears.  St. Bridget sought in every possible way to make me forget him, and the priest would tell me that I need not think so much about him, for he no longer cared for me.  He said the devil had got him, and I would never see him again.  These cruel words, so far from making me forget, served to awaken a still greater desire to see him, and increased my grief because I was denied the privilege.

In the room with me, were six other little girls, who were all sick at the same time, and St. Bridget took care of us all For two of the little girls, I felt the greatest sympathy.  They were quite young, I think not more than three years of age, and they grieved continually.  They made no complaint, did not even shed a tear, but they sobbed all the time, whether asleep or awake.  Of their history, I could learn nothing at that time, except the fact, that they were taken from their parents for the good of their souls.  I afterwards overheard a conversation that led me to think that they were heirs to a large property, which, if they were out of the way, would