ney upon the new wing.'

'It will interfere very much indeed; but I'm trying to get some of the
nuns to come here, and I hope the Bishop will not permit a new
foundation. It's very hard upon us Irish women if we are to be eaten out
of house and home by pious foreigners. I'm in correspondence with the
Bishop about it. As for Mary--'

'You surely don't think she's going to leave?'

'No, I don't suppose she'll leave; it would be easier for me if she did,
but it would give rise to any amount of talk. And where would she go if
she did leave, unless she lived with you?'

'My house is too small; besides, she didn't speak of leaving, only that
she hadn't yet taken her final vows. I explained that no one will
distinguish between the black veil and final vows. Am I not right?'

'I think those vows will take a great weight off your mind, Oliver. I
wish I could say as much for myself.'

The Reverend Mother opened a glass door, and brother and sister stood
for some time admiring the flower vases that lined the terrace.

'I can't get her to water the geraniums.'

'If you'll tell me where I can get a can--'

'You'll excuse me, Reverend Mother.'

It was the Sister in charge of the laundry, and, seeing her crippled
arm, Father Oliver remembered that her dress had become entangled in the
machinery. He didn't know, however, that the fault lay with Mary, who
was told off to watch the machinery and to stop it instantly in case of
necessity.

'She can't keep her attention fixed on anything, not even on her
prayers, and what she calls piety I should call idleness. It's terrible
to have to do with stupid women, and the convent is so full of them that
I often wonder what is the good of having a convent at all.'

'But, Eliza, you don't regret--'

'No, of course I don't regret. I should do just the same again. But
don't let us waste our time talking about vocations. I hear enough of
that here. I want you to tell me about the music-mistress; that's what
interests me.'

And when Father Oliver had told her the whole story and showed her
Father O'Grady's letter, she said:

'You know I always thought you were a little hard on Miss Glynn. Father
O'Grady's letter convinces me that you were.'

'My dear Eliza, I don't want advice; I've suffered enough.'

'Oliver dear, forgive me.' And the nun put out her hand to detain him.

'Well, don't say again, Eliza, that you always thought. It's irritating,
and it does no good.'

'Her story i