lessons. Where? In Dulwich? But to go back to the
house in which she lived her life, to the room which used to be hung
with the old instruments, and to revive her mother's singing classes?
No, she could not begin her life from exactly the same point at which
she left off. And gradually the project formed in her mind of a new
life, a life which would be at once new and old. And the project
seemed to take shape as she wrote the last pages of her memoir of the
late Prioress.

"It is done, and I have got a right to my own manuscript; they cannot
take that from me." And she went into the sacristy, her manuscript in
her hand.

The cool, sweet room seemed empty, and Veronica emerged from the
shadow, almost a shadow. There were two windows, lattice panes, and
these let the light fall upon the counter, along which the vestments
were laid for the priest. The oak press was open, and it exhaled an
odour of orris root and lavender, and Veronica, standing beside it, a
bunch of keys at her girdle, once more reminded Evelyn of the
mediaeval virgin she had seen in the Rhenish churches.

"I have finished collecting your aunt's papers."

"And now you are going to leave us?"

There was a sob in the girl's voice, and all Evelyn's thoughts about
her seemed to converge and to concentrate. There was the girl before
her who passed through life without knowing it, interested in putting
out the vestments for an old priest, hiding his amice so that no
other hands but hers should touch it; this and the dream of an angel
who visited her in sleep and whose flesh was filled with luminous
tints constituted all she knew of life, all she would ever know.
There were tears in her eyes now, there was a sob in her voice; she
would regret her friend for a day, for a week, and then the convent
life would draw about her like great heavy curtains. Evelyn
remembered how she had told her of a certain restlessness which kept
her from her prayers; she remembered how she had said to her, "It
will pass, everything will pass away." She would become an old nun,
and would be carried to the graveyard just as her aunt had been. When
would that happen? Perhaps not for fifty years. Sooner or later it
would happen. And Evelyn listened to Veronica saying the convent
would never be the same without her, saying:

"Once you leave us you will never come back."

"Yes, I shall, Veronica; I shall come once or twice to see you."

"Perhaps it would be better for you not to co