orna had
not been able to distinguish the lady's features, but the impression she
had received had been that she was dark, as Beatrice was. There was no
reason in the nature of things why this should not be the woman whom
the Wanderer loved. It was natural enough that, being left alone in
a strange city at such a moment, she should have sought refuge in a
convent, and this being admitted it followed that she would naturally
have been advised to retire to the one in which Unorna found herself, it
being the one in which ladies were most frequently received as guests.
Unorna could hardly trust herself to speak. She was conscious that
Sister Paul was watching her, and she turned her face from the lamp.

"There can be no difficulty about your seeing her, or talking with
her, if you wish it," said the nun. "She told me that she would be at
Compline at nine o'clock. If you will be there yourself you can see her
come in, and watch her when she goes out. Do you think you have ever
seen her?"

"No," answered Unorna in an odd tone. "I am sure that I have not."

Sister Paul concluded from Unorna's manner that she must have reason to
believe that the guest was identical with some one of whom she had heard
very often. Her manner was abstracted and she seemed ill at ease. But
that might be the result of fatigue.

"Are you not hungry?" asked the nun. "You have had nothing since you
came, I am sure."

"No--yes--it is true," answered Unorna. "I had forgotten. It would be
very kind of you to send me something."

Sister Paul rose with alacrity, to Unorna's great relief.

"I will see to it," she said, holding out her hand. "We shall meet in
the morning. Good-night."

"Good-night, dear Sister Paul. Will you say a prayer for me?" She added
the question suddenly, by an impulse of which she was hardly conscious.

"Indeed I will--with all my heart, my dear child," answered the nun
looking earnestly into her face. "You are not happy in your life," she
added, with a slow, sad movement of her head.

"No--I am not happy. But I will be."

"I fear not," said Sister Paul, almost under her breath, as she went out
softly.

Unorna was left alone. She could not sit still in her extreme anxiety.
It was agonising to think that the woman she longed to see was so near
her, but that she could not, upon any reasonable pretext, go and knock
at her door and see her and speak to her. She felt also a terrible doubt
as to whether she would recognise he