very prominent;
then they came more to the front, and other characters introduced
themselves upon occasion. As these personages appeared and reappeared, I
hoped that they would gradually surround themselves with an interest
which would steadily increase the desire to know more and more about
them. Thus, as I went on, I said less and less about Sicily, and more
and more about my characters, especially the young man and the young
woman, the curious blending of whose lives I was endeavoring to depict.

This went on very smoothly for a few days, and then, about eleven
o'clock one morning, my nun suddenly leaned back in her chair and laid
down her pen.

"I cannot write any more of this," she said, looking out of the window.

I was so astonished that I could scarcely ask her what she meant.

"This is love-making," she continued, "and with love-making the sisters
of the House of Martha can have nothing to do. It is one of our
principal rules that we must not think about it, read about it, or talk
about it; and of course it would have been forbidden to write about it,
if such a contingency had ever been thought of. Therefore I cannot do
any more work of that kind."

In vain I expostulated; in vain I told her that this was the most
important part of my book; in vain I declaimed about the absurdity of
such a regulation; in vain I protested; in vain I reasoned. She shook
her head, and said there was no use talking about it; she knew the
rules, and should obey them.

I had been standing near the grating, but now I threw myself into a
chair, and sat silent, wondering what I should do. Must I give up this
most admirable plan of carrying on my work, simply because those foolish
sisters had made absurd rules for themselves? Must I wind up my book for
want of material? Not for a moment did I think of getting another
secretary, or of selecting some other sort of that stuff which literary
people call padding, for the purpose of prolonging my pleasant labors. I
was becoming interested in the love-story I had begun, and I wanted to
go on with it, and I believed also that it would be of great advantage
to my book; but, on the other hand, it was plain that my nun would not
write this story, and it was quite as plain to me that I could not
insist upon anything which would cause her to leave me.

"Don't you think," she said presently, still looking towards the window,
"that we had better do some sort of work for the rest of the morning?