XIMENO

Written for THE SPINNERS' BOOK OF FICTION _All Rights Reserved_

SISTER TERESA had wept bitterly for two days. The vanity for which she
did penance whenever her madonna loveliness, consummated by the white
robe and veil of her novitiate, tempted her to one of the little mirrors
in the pupil's dormitory, was powerless to check the blighting flow.
There had been moments when she had argued that her vanity had its
rights, for had it not played its part in weaning her from the
world?--that wicked world of San Francisco, whose very breath,
accompanying her family on their monthly visits to Benicia, made her
cross herself and pray that all good girls whom fate had stranded there
should find the peace and shelter of Saint Catherine of Siena. It was
true that before Sister Dominica toiled up Rincon Hill on that wonderful
day--here her sobs became so violent that Sister Maria Sal, praying
beside her with a face as swollen as her own, gave her a sharp poke in
the ribs, and she pressed her hands to her mouth lest she be marched
away. But her thoughts flowed on; she could pray no more. Sister
Dominica, with her romantic history and holy life, her halo of fame in
the young country, and her unconquerable beauty--she had never seen such
eyelashes, never, never!--_what_ was she thinking of at such a time?
She had never believed that such divine radiance could emanate from any
mortal; never had dreamed that beauty and grace could be so enhanced by
a white robe and a black veil----Oh, well! Her mind was in a rebellious
mood; it had been in leash too long. And what of it for once in a way?
No ball dress she had ever seen in the gay disreputable little
city--where the good citizens hung the bad for want of law--was half as
becoming as the habit of the Dominican nun, and if it played a part in
weaning frivolous girls from the world, so much more to the credit of
Rome. God knew she had never regretted her flight up the bays, and even
had it not been for the perfidy of--she had forgotten his name; that at
least was dead!--she would have realized her vocation the moment Sister
Dominica sounded the call. When the famous nun, with that passionate
humility all her own, had implored her to renounce the world, protested
that her vocation was written in her face--she really looked like a
juvenile mater dolorosa, particularly when she rolled up her
eyes--eloquently demanded what alternative that hideous embryo of a city
could give her--th