Grimshaw, who, scorpion-like, stung
himself to death with the venom of his own bad passions. She is a
Sister of Mercy, devoted to good works, and leaves her convent only
in times of war, plague, pestilence or famine, to minister to the
suffering. She nursed me through the yellow fever, when I lay in the
hospital at New Orleans, but when I got well enough to recognize her she
vanished--evaporated--made herself 'thin air,' and another Sister served
in her place."
"Have you ever seen her since?"
"Yes, once; I sought out her convent, and went with the fixed
determination to reason with her, and to persuade her not to renew her
vows for another year--you know, the Sisters only take vows for a year
at a time."
"Did you make any impression on her mind?" inquired Thurston, with more
interest than he had yet shown m any part of the story.
"'Make any impression on her mind!' No! I--I did not even attempt to.
How could I, when I only saw her behind a grate, with the prioress on
one side of her and the portress on the other? My visit was silent
enough, and short enough, and sad enough. Why can't she come out of
that? What have I done to deserve to be made miserable? I don't deserve
it. I am the most ill-used man in the United States service.
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