than I usually do with people who are unknown to me. I feared not to repeat to him all my childish thoughts; and somehow I felt confident that he would hear my folly with indulgence. Oh! I was not deceived in him; he listened to me with such an air of kindness and attention; he answered me with such gentleness, such condescension: he did not call me an infant, and treat me with contempt, as our cross old confessor at the Castle used to do. I verily believe, that if I had lived in Murcia a thousand years, I never should have liked that fat old father Dominic!”
“I confess, that father Dominic had not the most pleasing manners in the world; but he was honest, friendly, and well-meaning.”
“Ah! my dear mother, those qualities are so common——”
“God grant, my child, that experience may not teach you to think them rare and precious: I have found them but too much so. But tell me, Antonia, why is it impossible for me to have seen the abbot before?”
“Because since the moment when he entered the abbey, he has never been on the outside of its walls. He told me just now, that from his ignorance of the streets, he had some difficulty to find the strada di San Iago, though so near the abbey.”
“All this is possible, and still I may have seen him
“Holy virgin! as you say, that is very true.—Oh! But might he not have been born in the abbey?”
Elvira smiled.
“Why, not very easily.”
“Stay, stay! Now I recollect how it was. He was put into the abbey quite a child; the common people say, that he fell from heaven, and was sent as a present to the Capuchins by the Virgin.”
“That was very kind of her. And so he fell from heaven, Antonia? He must have had a terrible tumble.”
“Many do not credit this; and I fancy, my dear mother, that I must number you among the unbelievers. Indeed, as our landlady told my aunt, the general idea is, that his parents, being poor, and unable to maintain him, left him just born at the abbey-door; the late superior, from pure charity, had him educated in the convent, and he proved to be a model of virtue, and piety, and learning, and I know not what else besides. In consequence, he was first received as a brother of the order, and not long ago was chosen abbot. However, whether this account or the other is the true one—at least all agree, that when the monks took him under their care, he could not speak; therefore you could not have heard his voice before he entered the monastery, because at that time he had no voice at all.”
“Upon my word, Antonia, you argue very closely; your conclusions are infallible. I did not suspect you of being so able a logician.”
“Ah! you are mocking me; but so much the better. It delights me to see you in spirits; besides you seem tranquil and easy, and I hope that you will have no more convulsions. Oh! I was sure the abbot’s visit would do you good.”
“It has indeed done me good, my child. He has quieted my mind upon some points which agitated me, and I already feel the effects of his attention. My eyes grow heavy, and I think I can sleep a little. Draw the curtains, my Antonia: but if I should not wake before midnight, do not sit up with me, I charge you.”
Antonia promised to obey her; and having received her blessing, drew the curtains of the bed. She then seated herself in silence at her embroidery frame, and beguiled the hours with building castles in the air. Her spirits were enlivened by the evident change for the better in Elvira, and her fancy presented her with visions bright and pleasing. In these dreams Ambrosio made no despicable figure. She thought of him with joy and gratitude; but for every idea which fell to the friar’s share, at least two were unconsciously bestowed upon Lorenzo. Thus passed the time, till the bell in the neighbouring steeple of the Capuchin cathedral announced the hour of midnight. Antonia remembered her mother’s injunctions, and obeyed them, though with reluctance. She undrew the curtains with caution. Elvira was enjoying a profound and quiet slumber; her cheek glowed with health’s returning colours: a smile declared that her dreams were pleasant, and as Antonia bent over her, she fancied that she heard her name pronounced. She kissed her mother’s forehead softly, and retired to her chamber; there she knelt before a statue of St. Rosolia, her patroness; she recommended herself to the protection of heaven, and, as had been her custom from infancy, concluded her devotions by chaunting the following stanzas:
MIDNIGHT HYMN.
Now all is hush’d; the solemn chime
No longer swells the nightly gale:
Thy awful presence, hour sublime,
With spotless heart once more I hail.
’Tis now the moment still and dread,
When sorcerers use their baleful power;
When graves give up their buried dead
To profit by the sanctioned hour.
From guilt and guilty thoughts secure,
To duty and devotion true,
With bosom light and conscience pure,
Repose, thy gentle aid I woo.
Good angels! take my thanks, that still
The snares of vice I view with scorn;
Thanks, that to-night as free from ill
I sleep, as when I woke at morn.
Yet may not my unconscious breast
Harbour some guilt to me unknown?
Some wish impure, which unreprest
You blush to see, and I to own?
If such there be, in gentle dream
Instruct my feet to shun the snare;
Bid truth upon my errors beam,
And deign to make me still your care.
Chase from my peaceful bed away,
