Reader, in the course of thirteen months, only one, of from fifty to sixty letters which I addressed to my mother, was ever received by her, and that one was this very letter.  The monks, instead of forwarding mine, had forged letters imitating the hand-writing, and adopting a style suited to their purpose; and instead of consigning to me the genuine replies, they artfully substituted answers of their own fabrication.  My family, therefore, were not surprised at the tenor of this epistle, but rejoiced over it, and reputed me already a Saint.  They probably pictured me to themselves, on some future day, with a mitre on my head—­with the red cap—­nay, perhaps, even wearing the triple crown.  Oh, what a delusion!  Poor deceived parents!  You knew not that your son, in anguish and despair, was clashing his chains, and devouring his tears in secret; that a triple bandage was placed before his eyes, and that he was being dragged, an unwilling victim, to the sacrifice.”  Returning home soon after, Ciocci rushed to his mother, and asked if she had his letters.  They, were produced; when he found that only one had been written by him.  The rest were forgeries of the masters.]

“It follows then,” said my father, “that these letters are forgeries, and the excuses they have so often made are base falsehoods.  A teacher of the religion of Jesus Christ guilty of lying and forgery!  ’O, my soul come not thou into their secret; unto their assembly mine honor be thou not united.’”

“But we have our darling home again,” said I, “and now we shall keep her with us.”  Never shall I forget the sweet, sad smile that came over her pale face as I uttered these words.  Perchance, even then she realized that she was soon to leave us, never more to return.  However this may be, she gradually declined.  Slowly, but surely she went down to the grave.  Every remedy was tried—­every measure resorted to, that seemed to promise relief, but all in vain.  We had the best physicians, but they frankly confessed that they did not understand her disease.  In a very few months after her return, we laid our lovely and beloved sister beneath the clods of the valley.  Our good old physician wept as he gazed upon her cold remains.  I believe he thought she was poisoned, but as he could not prove it, he would only have injured himself by saying so.  As for myself, I always thought that she knew too many of their secrets to be allowed to live after leaving them.  “And now, dear,” she continued, “do you think it strange that I hate the Romanists?  Do you wonder if I feel like swearing when I think of priests and convents?”