s, her voice must have
shocked them a little; her voice must have brought the world before them
too vividly. For all her life was in her voice, she would never be able
to sing this hymn with the same sexless grace as they did. Her voice
would be always Evelyn Innes--Owen Asher's mistress.

The priest turned the Host toward them, and she saw the two long rows of
grey-habited nuns leaning their veiled heads, and knew that this was the
moment they lived for, the essential moment when the body which the
Redeemer gave in expiation of the sins of the world is revealed.
Evelyn's soul hushed in awe, and all that she had renounced seemed very
little in this moment of mystery and exaltation.

"What am I to say, Miss Innes? I shall think of this day when I am an
old woman. But you'll sing again before you leave?"

"Yes, sister, whenever you like."

"When I like? That would be all day. But I did follow you in the duet, I
was so anxious. I hope I did not spoil it?"

"I was never better accompanied. You made no mistake."

As they passed by her the other nuns thanked her under their breath. She
could see that they looked upon her as a providence sent by God to save
them from being cast back upon the world they dreaded, the world from
which they had fled. But all this extraordinary drama, this intensity of
feeling, remained inarticulate. They could only say, "Thank you, Miss
Innes; it was very good of you to come to sing for us." It was their
very dumbness that made them seem so wonderful. It was the dumbness of
these women--they could only speak in prayer--it was that that overcame
her. But the Reverend Mother was different. Evelyn listened to her,
thinking of nothing but her, and when the Reverend Mother left her,
Evelyn moved away, still under the spell of the authoritative sweetness
which her presence and manner exhaled. But the Reverend Mother was only
a part of a scheme of life founded on principles the very opposite to
those on which she had attempted to construct her life. Even in singing
the "Ave Maria," she had not been able to subdue her vanity. Her
pleasure in singing it had in a measure sprung out of the somewhat mean
desire to proclaim her superiority over those who had attained the
highest plane by renouncing all personal pride. They had proclaimed
their superiority in their obeisance. It was in giving, not in
receiving, praise that we rise above ourselves. This was the lesson that
every moment of her convent life