to her head if she had not suddenly discovered, just in
time, that she had "lost her vocation." Mary had beautiful hair. All the
girls in school had admired it. Peter had hated to think of its being
cut off; and lately, since the sudden change in Mary's mind, the
American girl had wondered if the peculiar, silvery blond had darkened.
It would be a pity if it had, for her hair had been one of Mary's chief
beauties, and if it had changed she would not be as lovely as of old,
particularly as she had lost the brilliant bloom of colour she had had
as a schoolgirl, her cheeks becoming white instead of pink roses.

It seemed to Peter that she could not remember exactly what Mary had
been like, in those first days, for the novice's habit had changed her
so strangely, seeming to chill her warm humanity, turning a lovely,
glowing young girl into a beautiful marble saint. But under the marble,
warm blood had been flowing, and a hot, rebellious heart throbbing,
after all. Peter delighted in knowing that this was true, though she was
anxious about the statue coming to life and walking out of its sheltered
niche. When she was called to say goodbye formally, with other friends
who had loved Mary as schoolgirl and novice, Peter's own heart was
beating fast.

The instant she caught sight of the tall, slight, youthful-looking
figure in gray, the three years fell away like a crumbling wall, and
gave back the days of the "three Maries." No, the silvery blond hair had
not faded or lost its sparkle.

Mary Grant, in her short gray skirt and coat, with her lovely hair in an
awkwardly done clump at the nape of a slender neck, looked a mere
schoolgirl. She was twenty-four, and nearing her twenty-fifth birthday.
Of late, she had had anxieties and vigils, and the life of a novice of
Saint Ursula-of-the-Lake was not lived on down or roses: but the
tranquil years of simple food, of water-drinking, of garden-work, of
quiet thinking and praying had passed over her like the years in
dreams, which last no longer than moments. They had left her a child,
with a child's soft curves and a child's rose-leaf skin. Yet she looked
to Peter very human now, and no saint. Her large eyes, of that golden
gray rimmed with violet, called hazel, seemed to be asking, "What is
life?"

[Illustration: MARY GRANT]

Peter thought her intensely pathetic; and somehow the fact that new
shoes had been forgotten, and that Mary still wore the stubby,
square-toed abomination