‘Her form was fresher than the morning rose When the dew wets its leaves,--unstain’d and pure As is the lily, or the mountain snow.’--_Thomson_. Spring was over all the land, and the April sunshine was beaming mildly on the tender green leaves and half-blown flowers in the convent garden of Ansprach. On the broad open terrace, strewn with the golden petals of the fragile and short-lived laburnum, and scented with the delicate fragrance of lilac and apple-blossom, a pair of anxious, feathered parents were vainly endeavouring, by means of continuous twittering, to induce an awkward fledgling to return to the nest from which he had prematurely fallen; whilst up and down between the borders of …
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