emed
strange to her that she never had what might be called a girl friend.
But she had arrived at a time when a woman friend was a necessity, and
it now suddenly occurred to her that there would be something
wonderfully sweet and satisfying in the uncritical love of a woman
younger than herself. She felt that the love of this innocent creature
who knew nothing, who never would know anything, and who therefore would
suspect nothing, would help her to forget her past as Monsignor wished.
She felt a sympathy awaken in her for her own sex which she had never
known before, and this yearning was confounded in a desire to be among
those who knew nothing of her past. Now she was glad that she had
refrained from taking the Reverend Mother into her confidence, and she
wondered how much Monsignor had told her the day they had walked in the
garden; it relieved her to remember that he knew very little except what
she had told him in confession.

Someone knocked. She answered, "Come in." It was Mother Philippa and
another nun.

"I hope we're not interrupting.... But you're reading, I see."

"No, I was thinking;" and glad of the interruption, she let the book
fall on her knees. "Pray come in, Mother Philippa," and Evelyn rose to
detain her.

The nuns entered very shyly. Evelyn handed them chairs, and as she did
so she remarked the tall, angular nun who followed Mother Philippa, and
whose face expressed so much energy.

"Good afternoon, Miss Innes. I hope you slept well last night, and did
not find your bed too uncomfortable?"

"Thank you, Mother Philippa. I liked my bed. I slept very well." Evelyn
drew two chairs forward, and Mother Philippa introduced Evelyn to Sister
Mary John. And while she explained that she had heard from the Reverend
Mother that Miss Innes had promised to sing at Benediction, Sister Mary
John sat watching Evelyn, her large brown eyes wide open. Her eagerness
was even a little comical, and Evelyn smiled through her growing liking
for this nun. She was unlike any other nun she had seen. Nuns were
usually formal and placid, but Sister Mary John was so irreparably
herself that while the others presented feeble imitations of the
Reverend Mother's manner, her walk and speech, Sister Mary John
continued to slouch along, to cross her legs, to swing her arms, to lean
forward and interrupt when she was interested in the conversation; when
she was not, she did not attempt to hide her indifference. Evelyn
thought th