they had so often sat together when change and sorrow were but names. There was every walk and nook which Alice had made glad, and in the minster nave was one flat stone beneath which she slept in peace.
"And could they, remembering how her young heart had sickened at the thought of cloistered walls, look upon her grave in garbs which would chill the very ashes within it? Could they bow down in prayer, and when all Heaven turned to hear them bring the dark shade of sadness on one angel's face? No.
"They sent abroad to artists of great celebrity in those times, and having obtained the church's sanction to their work of piety, caused to be executed in five large compartments of richly stained glass a faithful copy of their old embroidery work. These were fitted into a large window until that time bare of ornament, and when the sun shone brightly, as she had so well loved to see it, the familiar patterns were reflected in their original colours, and throwing a stream of brilliant light upon the pavement, fell warmly on the name of Alice.
"For many hours in every day the sisters paced slowly up and down the nave, or knelt by the side of the flat broad stone. Only three were seen in the customary place after many years, then but two, and for a long time afterwards, but one solitary female bent with age. At length she came no more, and the stone bore five plain Christian names.
"That stone has worn away and been replaced by others, and many generations have come and gone since then. Time has softened down the colours, but the same stream of light still falls upon the forgotten tomb, of which no trace remains; and to this day the stranger is shown in York cathedral an old window called The Five Sisters."
"That's a melancholy tale," said the merry-faced gentleman, emptying his glass.
"It is a tale of life, and life is made up of such sorrows," returned the other, courteously, but in a grave and sad tone of voice.
"There are shades in all good pictures, but there are lights too, if we choose to contemplate them," said the gentleman with the merry face. "The youngest sister in your tale was always light-hearted."
"And died early," said the other, gently.
"She would have died earlier, perhaps, had she been less happy," said the first speaker, with much feeling. "Do you think the sisters who loved her so well, would have grieved the less if her life had been one of gloom and sadness? If anything could soothe the first sharp pain of a heavy loss, it would be—with me—the reflection, that those I mourned, by being innocently happy here, and loving all about them, had prepared themselves for a purer and happier world. The sun does not shine upon this fair earth to meet frowning eyes, depend upon it."
"I believe you are right," said the gentleman who had told the story.
"Believe!" retorted the other, "can anybody doubt it? Take any subject of sorrowful regret, and see with how much of pleasure it is associated. The recollection of past pleasure may become pain——"
"It does," interposed the other.
