It was near twelve o’clock before I was ready to go on again, and when I asked how far it was to the next town, they manifested a great anxiety for my welfare.  The man said it was seven miles to Mt.  Bly, but he hoped I did not intend to walk.  I told him I did not know whether I should or not, perhaps I might ride.  “But are you not afraid to go on alone?” he asked.  “St. Dennis is a bad place for a lady to be out alone at night, and you must pass a grave-yard in the south part of the town; dare you go by it, in the dark?” I assured him that I had no fear whatever, that would prevent me from going past the grave-yard.  I had never committed a crime, never injured any one, and I did not think the departed would come back to harm me.  The lady said she would think of me with some anxiety, for she should not dare to go past that grave-yard alone in the dark.  I again assured her that I had no cause to fear, had no crime on my conscience, had been guilty of no neglect of duty, and if the living would let me alone, I did not fear the dead.  They thought I referred to the low characters about town, and the lady replied, “I shall tell my beads for you and the holy Virgin will protect you from all harm.  But remember,” she continued, “whenever you pass this way, you will always find a cordial welcome with us.”  I thanked her, and with a warm grasp of the hand we parted.

CHAPTER XXII.

Lonely midnight walk.

It was near morning when I entered Mt.  Bly, but I did not stop.  I traveled all night, and late in the morning came to a respectable looking farmhouse which I thought might be occupied by Protestants.  I always noticed that their houses were neater, and more comfortable than those of the Romanists in the same condition in life.  In the present instance I was not disappointed in my expectations.  The lady received me kindly, gave me some breakfast, and directed me to the next village.  I walked all day, and near night arrived at St. Mary’s, where I called at a house, and asked permission to sit and rest awhile.  They gave me an invitation to enter, but did not offer refreshments.  I did not like to ask for charity if I could avoid it, and I thought it possible they might ask me to stay over night.  But they did not, and after a half hour’s rest I rose to depart, and thanking them for their kindness inquired how far it was to the next house.  They said it was seven miles to the first house, and nine to the next village.

With a sad heart, I once more pursued my lonely way.  Soon it began to rain, and the night came on, dark and dismal, cold and stormy, with a high wind that drove the rain against my face with pitiless fury.  I entered a thick wood where no ray of light could penetrate, and at almost every step, I sank over shoes in the mud.  Thus I wandered on, reflecting bitterly on my wretched fate.  All the superstitious fears, which a convent life is so well calculated to produce,