er exciting experiences, for theirs
was an enclosed order, and it was years since most of them had been
outside the convent gates.

Lady MacMillan was a large, very absent-minded and extremely
near-sighted lady, like her half-sister, Mary's adored Reverend Mother;
but neither so warm-hearted nor so intelligent. Still, Mary was used to
this old friend, and fond of her as well. It was not like going away
irrevocably from all she knew and loved, to be going under Lady
MacMillan's wing. Still, she went weeping, wondering how she had ever
made up her mind to the step, half passionately grateful to Reverend
Mother for not being angry with her weakness and lack of faith, half
regretful that some one in authority had not thought it right to hold
her forcibly back.

There was no railway station within ten miles of the old convent by the
lake. Lady MacMillan came from her little square box of a castle still
farther away, in the old-fashioned carriage which she called a
"barouche," drawn by two satin-smooth, fat animals, more like tightly
covered yet comfortable brown sofas than horses.

It was a great excitement for Lady MacMillan to be going to London, and
a great exertion, but she did not grudge trouble for Mary Grant. Not
that she approved of the girl's leaving the convent. It was Reverend
Mother who had to persuade her half-sister that, if Mary had not the
vocation, it was far better that she should read her own heart in time,
and that the girl was taking with her the blessings and prayers of all
those who had once hoped to keep their dear one with them forever. Still
it was the greatest sensation the convent had known, that Mary should
be going; and Reverend Mother would not let her half-sister even
mention, in that connection, the name of the other Mary--or
Marie--Grant, who also had gone away sensationally. The eldest of the
"three Maries," the three prettiest, most remarkable girls in the
convent school, had left mysteriously, in a black cloud of disgrace. She
had run off to join a lover who had turned out to be a married man,
unable to make her his wife, even if he wished; and sad, vague tidings
of the girl had drifted back to the convent since, as spray from the sea
is blown a long way on the wind.

Reverend Mother would not hear Lady MacMillan say, "Strange that the two
Mary Grants should be the only young women to leave you, except in the
ordinary way," the ordinary way being the end of school days for a girl,
or