r real life."

Evelyn was saying that it was a long while since she had sung any sacred
music, and, referring to the difference of the rule in France and in
England, she mentioned that in Paris the opera singers frequently sang
in the churches.

"It must be hard on Catholics with beautiful voices like yours that they
may not be allowed to sing in church choirs, for there can be nothing
so delightful as to bring a great gift to God's service."

It was the prioress who broke off the conversation, to Evelyn's regret.

"Mother Hilda, I am afraid we are forgetting your young charges."

"Yes, indeed, I must run back to my children. Good-bye, Miss Innes, I am
so glad that you have come to us;" and the warm, soft clasp of the
little hand was to Evelyn a further assurance of friendly welcome.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

She was ashamed not to be able to follow the Office in chapel, so at the
Reverend Mother's suggestion she consented to employ part of her long
convent leisure in taking lessons in Latin. Mother Mary Hilda was to be
her instructress.

The library was a long, rather narrow room, once the drawing-room of the
Georgian mansion. Only a carved Adams' chimney-piece, now painted over
in imitation of oak remained of its former adornment; the tall windows
were eighteenth century, and with that air they looked upon the terrace.
The walls had been lined by the nuns with plain wooden shelves, and upon
them were what seemed to be a thousand books, every one in a grey linen
wrapper, with the title neatly written on a white label pasted on the
back. Evelyn's first thought was of the time it must have taken to cover
them, but she remembered that in a convent time is of no consequence. If
a thing can be done better in three hours than in one, there is no
reason why three hours should not be spent upon it. She had noticed,
too, that the sisters regarded the library with a little air of demure
pride. Mother Mary Hilda had told her that the large tin boxes were
filled with the convent archives. There were piles of unbound
magazines--the _Month_ and the _Dublin Review_. There was a ponderous
writing-table, with many pigeon-holes; Evelyn concluded it to be the
gift of a wealthy convert, and she turned the immense globe which showed
the stars and planets, and wondered how the nuns had become possessed of
such a thing, and how they could have imagined that it could ever be of
any use to them. She grew fond of this room, and divi