piration; the air
was like crystal, the leaves were falling.... We have perceptions of the
outer forms of things, but that is all we know of them. The only thing
we are sure of is what is in ourselves. We know the difference between
right and wrong. She stood for a long time at the edge of the fish pond,
gazing into the vague depths. Then she walked, exalted, overcome by the
mystery of things. She seemed to walk upon air, the world was a-thrill
with spiritual significances, all was symbol and exaltation. Her past
life shrank to a tiny speck, and she knew that she had been happy only
since she had been in the convent. Ah, that little chapel, haunted by
prayers! it breathed prayer, in that chapel contemplation was never far
off. She had prayed there as she had never prayed before, and she
wondered if she should attribute the difference in her prayers to the
chapel or to herself. She had always felt, in a dumb, instinctive way,
that to her at least everything depended on her chastity.... She had
been chaste now a long while. The explanation seemed to have come to
her. Yes, it is by denial of the sexual instinct that we become
religious.

As she passed through the orchard she caught sight of the strange little
person whom she had seen in chapel with a pile of prayer books beside
her, and who always wore something startlingly blue, whether skirt,
handkerchief or cloak. She had met her in the garden before, but she had
hurried away, her eyes fixed on the ground. Mother Philippa had spoken
of a Miss Dingle, a simple-minded person who had been sent by her family
to the convent to be looked after by the nuns, and Evelyn concluded that
it must be she. But at that moment other thoughts engaged her attention;
and she lingered in the orchard, returning slowly by St. Peter's walk.
As she passed the Georgian temple or summer-house, she was taken by a
desire to examine it, and there she found Miss Dingle. She was seated on
the floor, engaged, so Evelyn thought, in a surreptitious game of
Patience. That was only how she could account for Miss Dingle's
consternation and fear at seeing her. But what she had taken for cards
were pious pictures. Evelyn stood in the doorway, and for the first time
had an opportunity of seeing what Miss Dingle was really like. It was
difficult to say whether her face was ugly or pretty; the features were
not amiss--it was the expression, vague and dim like that of an animal,
that puzzled Evelyn.

"Please le