nly improving, and I hope she will soon be able to
sing for us again at Benediction. Haven't you noticed that our
congregation is beginning to fall away? And you won't deny that the
fact that an opera singer wishes to enter our convent gives a
distinction--"

"It depends, Mother Philippa, in what sense you use the word
'distinction.' But I see you don't agree with me; you think with the
Prioress that Evelyn is--"

"Don't let us argue this question any more. Hilda, go and tell Evelyn
I want her."

"How Hilda does try to thwart me, to make things more difficult than
they are!"

"Evelyn, my dear child, I have sent for you to ask if you feel well
enough to-day to sing for us at Benediction?"

"Oh, yes, dear Mother, why shouldn't I sing for you? What would you
like me to sing?"' The Prioress hesitated, and then asked Evelyn to
suggest some pieces, and after several suggestions Evelyn said:

"Perhaps it would be better if I were to call Sister Mary John, if
you will allow me, Mother." And she went away, calling to the other
nun, who came quickly from the kitchen garden in her big boots and
her habit tucked up nearly to her knees, looking very much more like
a labouring woman than a musician.

"We were talking just now of what Evelyn would sing for us at
Benediction; perhaps you had better go away and discuss the matter
between you."

"Will you sing Stradella's 'Chanson d'Eglise' or will you sing
Schubert's 'Ave Maria'? Nothing is more beautiful than that."

"I will sing the 'Ave Maria.'"

The nun sat down to play it, but she had not played many bars when
Evelyn interrupted her. "The intention of the single note, dear
Sister, the octave you are striking now, has always seemed to me like
a distant bell heard in the evening. Will you play it so."

XXIII

And the idea of a bell sounding across the evening landscape was in
the mind of the congregation when Sister Mary John played the octave;
and the broken chords she played with her right hand awoke a
sensation of lights dying behind distant hills.

It is almost night, and amid a lonely landscape a harsh rock appears,
and by it a forlorn woman stands--a woman who is without friend or
any mortal hope--and she commends herself to the care of the Virgin.
She begins to sing softly, tremulous, like one in pain and doubt,
"Ave Maria, hearken to the Virgin's cry." The melody she sings is
rich, even ornate, but the richness of the phrase, with its two
little grace n