rend Mother. I had better tell you now, for you
are expecting the Bishop, and my clothing is fixed for the end of the
week, and--"

"And," said the Reverend Mother, "you feel that you are not certain of
your vocation."

"That is it, dear mother. I thought I had better tell you." Reading
disappointment in the nun's face, Catherine said, "I hesitated to tell
you before. I had hoped that the feeling would pass away; but, dear
mother, it isn't my fault; everyone has not a vocation."

Then Catherine noticed a softening in the Reverend Mother's face, and
she asked Catherine to sit down by her; and Catherine told her she had
come to the convent because she was crossed in love, and not as the
others came, because they wished to give up their wills to God.

"Our will is the most precious thing in us, and that is why the best
thing we can do is to give it up to you, for in giving it up to you,
dear mother, we are giving it up to God. I know all these things, but--"

"You should have told me of this when you came here, Catherine, and
then I would not have advised you to come to live with us."

"Mother, you must forgive me. My heart was broken, and I could not do
otherwise. And you have said yourself that I made the dairy a success."

"If you had stayed with us, Catherine, you would have made the dairy a
success; but we have got no one to take your place. However, since it
is the will of God, I suppose we must try to get on as well as we can
without you. And now tell me, Catherine, when it was that you changed
your mind. It was only the other day you told me you wished to become a
nun. You said you were most anxious for your clothing. How is it that
you have changed your mind?"

Catherine's eyes brightened, and speaking like one illuminated by some
inward light, she said:--

"It was the second day of my retreat, mother. I was walking in the
garden where the great cross stands amid the rocks. Sister Angela and
Sister Mary were with me, and I was listening to what they were saying,
when suddenly my thoughts were taken away and I remembered those at
home. I remembered Mr. Phelan, and James, who wanted to marry me, but
whom I would not marry; and it seemed to me that I saw him leaving his
father--it seemed to me that I saw him going away to America. I don't
know how it was--you will not believe me, dear mother--but I saw the
ship lying in the harbour, that is to take him away. And then I thought
of the old man sitting at home