sh of
recollection came to her. So Lady Arabella, that wise old citizen of the
world, had been quite right after all! She had given Michael six
months to find out his imperative need of Magda. And he had found it.
Only--something had gone wrong.

"Magda never had that letter," she said quietly at last.

She was gradually beginning to piece together the separate parts of the
puzzle. All letters that came for Magda had been forwarded on to the
sisterhood, and had she herself readdressed this of Michael's she would
have recognised the handwriting. But probably she had been away from
home, or had chanced to be out at post time, in which case Melrose, or
old Virginie, would have readdressed the envelope and dropped it in the
pillar box at the corner of the road.

Then--as was the case with any correspondence addressed to one of the
Sisters of Penitence--the letter would be read by the Mother Superior
and passed on to its destined recipient if she thought good. If not----

Gillian had learned a great deal about Catherine Vallincourt by now,
both from Lady Arabella and from Magda herself, who, before leaving
the community, had discovered the identity of its head. And she
could visualise the stern, fanatical woman, obsessed by her idea of
disciplining Magda and of counteracting the effects of her brother's
marriage with Diane Wielitzska, opening the letter and, after perusal,
calmly sealing it up in its envelope again and returning it to the
sender.

"Magda never had that letter, Michael," she repeated. "Listen!" And
then, without preamble, but with every word vibrant with pity for the
whole tragedy, she poured out the story of Magda's passionate repentance
and atonement, of her impetuous adoption of her father's remorseless
theory, mistaken though it might be, that pain is the remedy for sin,
and of the utter, hopeless despair which had overwhelmed her now that
she believed it had all proved unavailing.

"She has come to believe that you don't want her--never could want her,
Michael--because she has failed so much."

There was more than one reproach mingled with the story, but Michael
made no protest. It was only when she had finished that Gillian could
read in his tortured eyes all that her narrative had cost him.

"Yes," he said at last. "It's true. I wanted the impossible. I was
looking for a goddess--not a woman. . . . But now I want--just a woman,
Gillian."

"Then, if you want her, you must save her from hersel