nutes, and then march out to shed white silk and fleecy tulle. A
vengeful nun, whose hair has long been worn away, will then clip with
one snip of the scissors her brown locks from her head...."

"Horror!" cried Arthur.

"Sure, straight across the neck, you know, like the women's-rights
people. Then the murder of the hair has to be concealed, so they put on
a nightcap, and hide that with a veil, and then bring her into the
bishop to tell him it's all right, and that she's satisfied."

"And what do they make of the hair?" said Arthur.

"That's one of the things yet to be revealed."

"And after that she is set at chasing the rule, or being chased by the
rule for two years. She studies striking examples of observing the rule,
and of the contrary. She has a shy at observing it herself, and the
contrary. The rule is it when she observes it; she's it when she
doesn't. At this point the mother superior comes into the game."

"Where do the frowsy children come in?"

"At meals usually. Honora cuts the bread and her fingers, butters it,
and passes it round; the frowsy butter themselves, and Honora; this is
an act of mortification, which is intensified when the mistress of
novices discovers the butter on her habit."

"Finally the last stage is worse than the first, I suppose. Having
acquired the habit she gets into it so deeply...."

"She sheds it once more, Arthur. Then she's tied to the frowsy children
forever, and is known as Sister Mary of the Cold Shoulder to the world."

"This is a case of rescue," said Arthur with determination, "I move we
rescue her this minute. Help, help!"

The woods echoed with his mocking cries. Honora had not spoken, the
smile had died away, and she was plainly offended. Louis observant
passed a hint to Arthur, who made the apology.

"We shall be there," he said humbly, "with our hearts bleeding because
we must surrender you. And who are we that you need care? It is poor
Ireland that will mourn for the child that bathed and bound her wounds,
that watched by her in the dark night, and kept the lamp of hope and
comfort burning, that stirred hearts to pity and service, that woke up
Lord Constantine and me, and strangers and enemies like us, to render
service; the child whose face and voice and word and song made the
meanest listen to a story of injustice; all shut out, concealed, put
away where the mother may never see or hear her more."

His voice broke, his eyes filled with tears at the v