te to send her?"

"Madame Richard," I answered gravely, "you who live so far from the
world lose touch sometimes with its worst side. We others, to our
sorrow, know more, though our experience is dearly enough bought. Let me
tell you that I should hesitate at any time to give back the child into
the care of those who sent her out into the world alone with such a man
as Major Delahaye."

Madame Richard touched the cross which hung upon her bosom. Her eyes, it
seemed to me, narrowed a little.

"Major Delahaye," she said, "was the nominee of those who have the right
to dispose of the child."

"Then," I answered, "I shall require their right proven before Isobel
leaves us. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but I was present
when Major Delahaye was shot, and I am not sure that the bullet of his
assassin did not prevent a worse crime. The child was terrified to
death. It is my honest conviction that her fear was not uncalled for."

Madame Richard raised her hand slightly.

"Monsieur," she said, "such matters are not our concern. It is because
of the passions and evil doing of the world outside that we cling so
closely here to our own doctrine of isolation. Whatever she may have
suffered, Isobel will learn to forget here. In the blessed years which
lie before her, the memory of her unhappy pilgrimage will grow dim and
faint. It may even be for the best that she has realized for a moment
the shadow of evil things."

"Isobel is intended, then?" I asked.

"For the Church," Madame Richard answered. "That is the present decision
of those who have the right to decide for her. We ourselves do not care
to take pupils who have no idea at all of the novitiate. Occasionally we
are disappointed, and those in whom we have placed faith are tempted
back into the world. But we do our best while they are here to show them
the better way. We feared that we had lost Isobel. We shall be all the
more happy to welcome her back."

I shivered a little. I could not help feeling the cold repression of the
place. A vision of thin, grey-gowned figures, with pallid faces and
weary, discontented eyes, haunted me. I tried to fancy Isobel amongst
them. It was preposterous.

"Madame," I said, "I do not believe that Isobel is adapted by nature or
disposition for such a life."

"The desire for holiness," Madame Richard answered, "is never very
apparent in the young. It is the child's great good fortune that she
will grow into it."

"I am a