conscience, must tell you that after what you have said to me, and after
what I have said to you, it is unjust, to say no more, to leave me in
this state of cruel mystification; not to tell me why you have set aside
your promise to me, or even to tell me, when we talked together of
Sylvia, that we were then at the home of Sylvia's mother."

For the first time she looked at me, straight in my eyes, as a true
woman would naturally look at a man who was speaking strongly to her. I
think I made her forget, for a few moments at least, that she was a
Mother Superior. Then her eyes fell again, and she stood silent.

"Perhaps," she said presently, and speaking slowly, "I ought to explain
these things to you. It is a great mistake, as I now see, that I ever
said anything to you on the subject; but things were different then, and
I did not know that I was doing wrong. Still, if you rely on me to set
you right, you shall be set right. I see that this is quite as necessary
from other points of view as from your own. I cannot speak with you
to-day, but to-morrow, about this time, I shall be on the road to Maple
Ridge, where I am going to visit a sick woman."

"I shall join you on the road," I answered, and took my leave.

For the rest of the day I thought of little but the promised interview
on the morrow. To this I looked forward with the greatest interest, but
also with the greatest anxiety. I feared that Mother Anastasia would
prove to me that I must give up all thoughts of Sylvia. In fact, if
Sylvia had resolved to devote herself to the service of the House of
Martha,--and she had told me herself that she had so resolved,--I was
quite sure she would do so. Then what was there for Mother Anastasia to
say, or me to do? The case was settled. Sylvia Raynor must be nothing to
me.

I greatly wished for Walkirk. I knew he would encourage me, in spite of
the obvious blackness of the situation. It was impossible for me to
encourage myself. But, however black my fate might be, I longed to know
why it had been made black and all about it, and so waited with a savage
impatience for the morning and Mother Anastasia.

Immediately after breakfast, the next day, I was on the Maple Ridge
road, strolling from our village toward the top of a hill a mile or more
away, whence I could see the rest of the road, as it wound through the
lonely country, and at last lost itself in the woods. Back again to
Arden I came, and had covered the distance be