, and nothing occurred until
afternoon "rosary," when the Mother of the Novices came again and taking
me by the hand said:

"Come with me, my child."

I knew quite well where we were going to, and my lip was trembling when
we entered the Reverend Mother's room, for Alma was there, sitting by
the stove, and close beside her, with an angry look, was the stout lady
in furs whom I had seen in the carriage at the beginning of the
holidays.

"Don't be afraid," said the Reverend Mother, and drawing me to her side
she asked me to tell her what I had told Alma about Sister Angela.

I repeated our conversation as nearly as I could remember it, and more
than once Alma nodded her head as if in assent, but the Reverend
Mother's face grew darker at every word and, seeing this, I said:

"But if Sister Angela did anything wrong I'm sure she was very sorry,
for when she came back she said her prayers, and when she got to 'Father
of all mankind, forgive all sinners . . .'"

"Yes, yes, that will do," said the Reverend Mother, and then she handed
me back to the Mother of the Novices, telling her to warn me to say
nothing to the other children.

Alma did not return to us at dinner, or at recreation, or at chapel
(when another chaplain said vespers), or even at nine o'clock, when we
went to bed. But next morning, almost as soon as the Mother of the
Novices had left the dormitory, she burst into the room saying:

"I'm leaving this silly old convent, girls. Mother has brought the
carriage, and I've only come to gather up my belongings."

Nobody spoke, and while she wrapped up her brushes and combs in her
nightdress, she joked about Sister Angela and Father Giovanni and then
about Mildred Bankes, whom she called "Reverend Mother Mildred," saying
it would be her turn next.

Then she tipped up her mattress, and taking a novel from under it she
threw the book on to my bed, saying:

"Margaret Mary will have to be your story-teller now. By-by, girls!"

Nobody laughed. For the first time Alma's humour had failed her, and
when we went downstairs to the Meeting Room it was with sedate and quiet
steps.

The nuns were all there, with their rosaries and crosses, looking as
calm as if nothing had occurred, but the girls were thinking of Alma,
and when, after prayers, during the five minutes of silence for
meditation, we heard the wheels of a carriage going off outside, we knew
what had happened--Alma had gone.

We were rising to go to Mas