spectacles. She looked
to be a woman of fifty who had seen life and understood it.

"The officer says I am to share your room," began Sister Teresa in a
trembling voice. "Don't think me rude, please, but I don't want to
share your room. I want to be alone, and so do you. Can't you help me?"

"But I don't mind it, and you won't after you get used to it." The
voice was poised and well modulated--evidently a woman without
nerves--a direct, masterful sort of woman, who looked you straight in
the eyes, was without guile, hated a lie and believed in human nature.
"And we ought to get on together," she continued simply, as if it were
a matter of course. "You are a Sister, and from one of the French
institutions--I recognize your dress. I'm a nurse from the London
Hospital. The First Officer told me you had the other berth and I was
looking for you aboard the Cherbourg tender, but I couldn't see you for
the smoke, you were so far below me. We'll get on together, never fear.
Which bed will you have--this one or the one curtained off?"

"Oh, do you take the one curtained off," she answered in a hopeless
tone, as if further resistance was useless. "The sofa is easier perhaps
for me, for I always undress in the dark."

"No, turn on the light. It won't wake me--I'm used to sleeping
anywhere--sometimes bolt upright in my chair with my hand on my
patient."

"But it is one of the rules of our order to dress and undress in the
dark," the Sister pleaded; "candles are luxuries only used for the
sick, and so we do without them."

"All right--just as you say," rejoined Miss Jennings cheerily. "My only
desire was to make you comfortable."

That night at dinner Sister Teresa and Nurse Jennings found themselves
seated next to each other, the Chief Steward, who had special orders
from the First Officer to show Miss Jennings and her companion every
courtesy, having conducted them to their seats.

Before the repast was half over, the two had attracted the attention of
all about them. What was particularly noticed was the abstemious
self-denying life of the Sister so plainly shown in the lines of her
grave, almost hard, face, framed close in the tight bands of white
linen concealing every vestige of her hair, the whole in strong
contrast to the kind, sympathetic face of the Nurse, whose soft gray
locks hung loosely about her temples. Their history, gleaned at the
First Officer's table had also become public property. Nurse Jennings
had