s in it. Her pen flew over the paper.

Seated though she was, you could see her to be of noble figure, tall and
finely proportioned. The habit of the nun does not hide everything that
makes for beauty and for grace. The pure outlines of the small,
perfectly-shaped head showed through the thin black veil that fell over
the white starched coif. The small, high-instepped foot could not be
hidden in walking; the make of the thick shoe might not disguise its form.
The delicate whiteness and smooth, supple beauty of her hands, larger than
the hands of ordinary women, their owner being of more heroic build, as of
ampler mind and keener intellect, betrayed her to be a woman not yet old,
though there were some deep lines and many fine ones on the attentive
face that bent over the large square sheet of paper.

It was a curious face; its olive skin bleached to dull whiteness, its
expression stern almost to severity. I have heard it likened to a
Westmoreland hill-landscape. Lonely tarns lie under the black brows of the
precipice; one feels chilly, and a little afraid. But the sun shines out
suddenly from behind concealing mists, and everything is transformed to
loveliness. I can in no other words describe the change wrought in her by
her rare, sudden, illuminating smile. Her voice was the softest and the
clearest I ever heard, a sigh made most audible speech; but in her just
anger, only turned to wrath by the baser faults, the fouler vices, it
could roll in organ-tones of thunder, or ring like a silver trumpet. And
her eye made the lightning for such thunder, and the sword-thrust that
followed the clarion-note of war.

She could have ruled an empire or a court, this woman who managed the
thronged, buzzing Convent with the lifting of her finger, with the softest
tone of her soft West of Ireland voice, devoid of all trace of the
unbeautiful brogue, cultured, elegant, refined. As I have said, the
lessons that she taught bore great fruit during that red time of war that
was coming, and will bear greater fruit hereafter.

A little is known to me of the personal history of Lady Bridget-Mary
Bawne--in religion known as Mother Mary of Bethlehem--that may be here set
down. Some twenty-three years previously that devout Irish Catholic
nobleman, the Right Honourable James Dominic Bawne, tenth Earl of
Castleclare, Baron Kilhail, Count of the Holy Roman Empire, and D.L. for
West Connemara, not contented with the possession of three very tall,