adn't fallen in love. You might have shut
yourself up there and lived in grey habit and penances!' That day I
wore a grey silk dress, and I remember lifting the skirt up as we
passed the door and hitting the kerbstone with it. 'Shut up in that
prison-house! Did I ever seriously think of such a thing?' These were
my words, but God, in his great goodness and wisdom, resolved to
bring me back. A great deal is required to save our souls, so deeply
are we enmeshed in the delight of life and in the delight of one
another.... God took my husband from me after an illness of three
weeks. That happened forty years ago. I used to sit on the seashore,
crying all day, and my little child used to put his arms about me and
say, 'What is mammie crying for?' Then my child died; seemingly
without any reason, and I felt that I could not live any longer amid
the desires and activities of the world. I'll not try to tell you
what my grief was; you have suffered grief, and can imagine it.
Perhaps you can. I left my home and hurried here. When I saw you
return, soon after your father's death; I couldn't but think of my
own returning. I saw myself in you."

"But, Mother, do you regret that you came here?"

The old nun did not answer for some time.

"It is hard to say, Teresa. There are deceptions everywhere, in the
convent as in the world; and the mediocrity of the Sisters here is
tiresome; one longs for a little more intelligence. And, as I was
saying just now, everything declines; an idea ravels like a sleeve.
Are you happy here?... You are not; I see it in your eyes."

"The only ones who are happy here," Evelyn answered, "I am sure, are
those like Veronica, who pass from the schoolroom to the novitiate."

"You think that? But the convent is a great escapement. You came
here, having escaped death only by an accident, and when you went to
Rome to see your father you came back distraught, your mind unhinged,
and it was months before you could believe that your sins could be
forgiven. If you leave here, what will become of you? You will return
to the stage."

Evelyn smiled sadly.

"You will meet your lovers again. Temptation will be by you; you are
still a young woman. How old are you, Teresa?"

"Thirty-eight. But I no longer feel young."

"Then, do you not think it better to spend the last term with us? I
am an old woman, Teresa, and you are the only friend I have in the
convent, the only one who knows me; it would be a great charity