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beau—alas! poor nuns that we are. Then sometimes the girls get up a little screaming for our benefit. The other night, for instance, the ten o'clock bell had rung. Miss Buell had seen that the lights were out and the girls in bed. We were comfortably sinking into forgetfulness on our pillows, when I fancied I heard some poor dog yelling in some yard. I listened sympathisingly, and found it was a human voice in the distance uttering at short intervals a succession of agonised shrieks. I was horrified and indignant. 'Do listen,' I cried; 'they must be whipping a poor negro; isn't it abominable?' We listened; the shrieks seemed to draw nearer. 'Why, Miss Buell, 'tis certainly the girls in the opposite room!' 'Oh, no, they are all asleep; 'tis sonny's voice downstairs: they must be washing him.' 'At this time of night! What an idea! I'm convinced it is the girls.' The shrieks increased, and at intervals we distinguished the words: 'Oh, Penny, Penny Grimke! Oh, Miss Buell, Miss Blackwell, Mrs. Peters! Oh, Mrs. Peters!' I jumped out of bed, got a light, and hurried into the opposite room; as I opened the door the noise almost stunned me. There were six girls, all screaming at the top of their voices, as pale as their nightgowns, and some of them almost in fits; all the other doors were thrown open, and I was immediately surrounded by a perfect mob of girls in white nightgowns and caps, talking, crying, laughing, in a regular uproar. I threatened to blow out the lamp, to call Mr. Bonnetheau, to beat them all if they wouldn't hush, and at last I got at the origin of the affray. A couple of brushes had fallen on the floor, and one of the girls, affirming that somebody had touched her arm, began to scream; all the others joined in, and I really believe that if I had not gone to them when I did they would have fallen into convulsions, so completely had they given themselves up to terror. These are some of the