ts, and, having tired of this sort of
thing, had concluded to devote her life to the work of the House of
Martha. But this was mere idle conjecture. She had spoken, and I should
not indulge in pessimism.

I prepared a very good remark with which to greet the sub-mother on the
next morning, and, although addressing Sister Sarah, I would be in
reality speaking to my nun. I would say how well I was getting on. I had
thought of saying _we_ were getting on, but reflected afterward that
this would never do; I was sure that the House of Martha would not
allow, under any circumstances, that sister and myself to constitute a
_we_. Then I would refer to the help my secretary had been to me, and
endeavor to express the satisfaction which an author must always feel
for a suggestion of this kind, or any other, from one qualified to make
them. If there was any gratitude or vanity in my nun's heart, I felt I
could stir it up, if Sister Sarah would listen to me long enough; and if
gratitude, or even vanity, could be stirred, the rigidity of my nun
would be impaired, and she might find herself off her guard.

But I had no opportunity of making my remark. At nine o'clock the door
of the secretary's room opened, the nun entered, and the door was then
closed and locked. Sister Sarah must have been in a hurry that morning.
Just as well as not I might have made my remark directly to my nun, but
I did not. She walked quickly to the table, arranged her paper, opened
her inkstand, and sat down. I fancied that I saw a wavy wriggle of
impatience in her shawl. Perhaps she wanted to know the rest of that odd
incident near Eza. It may have been that it was impatient interest which
had impaired her rigidity the day before.

I went on with the odd incident, and made a very good thing of it. Even
when on well-worn routes of travel, I tried to confine myself to
out-of-the-way experiences. Walkirk had been very much interested in
this affair when I had told it to him, and there was no reason why this
nun should not also be interested, especially as she had seen Eza.

I finished the narrative, and began another, a rather exciting one,
connected with the breaking of a carriage wheel and an exile from Monte
Carlo; but never once did curiosity or any other emotion impair the
rigidity of that nun. She wrote almost as fast as I could dictate, and
when I stopped I know she was filled with nervous desire to know what
was coming next,--at least I fancied that