That feeling of strength which steels against fate--that melancholy which softens the soul, and feeds it on its own sensibility,--helped her to pass long winter months in her voluntary captivity.
A feeling of internal bitterness, however, poisoned even this sacrifice.
She said to herself that this sensibility was not recompensed.

She had flattered herself that M.Roland, on learning of her resolution and retreat, would hasten to take her from this convent and unite their destinies.

Time passed on.

Roland came not, and scarcely wrote.

At the end of six months he arrived, and was again deeply enamoured on seeing his beloved behind a grating.