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 so soon convince herself of the fact. Her mind tossed about with terrible thoughts, her head bowed down, her hands crossed on her heaving breast, for whole days and nights Maria Felicia paced the floor. Before this fatal interview with her father, when her mind was over-burdened, she had been accustomed to go to her harp for consolation. She pressed it to her bosom as her dearest friend, and life in its most beautiful aspect opened before her. At her magical touch every sound revealed a charming picture from some mysterious depth, and these floated around her head like fairies. But now she never touched the harp.

Maria Felicia feared the convent bars, the life awaiting her behind them, that terrible living death, that giving up of will, activity, conviction, that dull devotion and blind obedience—and yet not for one moment did she falter or succumb. For her, just for her, such a lot was meted out—for her, whose blood ran so rapidly, in whom was such an abundance of strength, such a strong instinct and