restrictions, the constant obedience exacted, had gone far towards
assisting in the utter collapse of nerves already frayed by the strain
of previous happenings.

Probably her fierce determination to go through with her self-elected
expiation, no matter what the cost, had a good deal to do with her
ultimate breakdown. With unswerving resolution she had forced herself to
obedience, to the performance of her appointed tasks in spite of their
distastefulness; and behind the daily work and discipline there had been
all the time the ceaseless, aching longing for the man who had loved her
and who had gone away.

It was not surprising, therefore, that the tired body and nerves at last
gave way, and in the delirium of brain fever Magda revealed the whole
pitiful story of the mistakes and misunderstandings which had brought
her in desperation to the Sisters of Penitence.

Fortunately it was upon Sister Bernardine that the major part of the
nursing devolved, and it was into her gentle ears that Magda unwittingly
poured out the history of the past. Bit by bit, from the ramblings of
delirium, Sister Bernardine pieced together the story, and her shy,
virginal heart found itself throbbing in overflowing sympathy--a
sympathy that sought expression in the tender care she gave her patient.

During the long, slow days of convalescence Magda, very helpless and
dependent, had gradually learned to love the soft-footed little Sister
who came and went throughout her illness--to love her as she would not,
at one time, have believed it possible she could grow to love anyone
behind the high grey walls which encircled the sisterhood.

If the past year had taught her nothing else, it had at least taught
her that goodness and badness are very evenly distributed. She had found
both good and bad behind those tall grey walls just as she had found
them in the great free world outside.

Her last memory, as her first, was of Sister Bernardine's kind eyes.

"Some of us find happiness in the world," the little Sister had said at
parting, "and some of us out of it. I think you were meant to find yours
in the world."

It was Magda's own choice to leave the sisterhood on foot. She had
nothing to take with her in the way of luggage, and she smiled a little
as she realised that, for the moment, she possessed actually nothing but
the clothes she stood up in--the same in which she had quitted Friars'
Holm a year ago, and which, on departure, she had subs