es. "Pay no
attention to him; you'll see what he'll do," said Sister Mary John, and
while Evelyn waited, a little afraid of the bird who seemingly had
selected her for some purpose of his own, she listened to the story of
his domestication. He had been hatched out in the hen-house, and had
tamed himself; he had declined to go wild, preferring a sage convent
life to the irregularity of the world. The bird hopped about, feigning
an interest in the worms, but getting gradually nearer the two women. At
last, with a triumphant caw caw, he flew on to Sister Mary John's
shoulder, eyeing Evelyn all the while, clearly bent on making her
acquaintance.

"He'll come on your shoulder presently," said Sister Mary John, and
after some plausive coquetting the bird fluttered on to Evelyn's
shoulder, and Sister Mary John said--

"You wait; you'll see what he will do."

Evelyn remained quite still, feeling the bird's bill caressing her neck.
When she looked round she noticed a wicked expression gathering in his
eyes.

"Pretend," said Sister Mary John, "not to see him."

Evelyn did as she was bidden, and, satisfied that he was no longer
observed, the bird plunged his beak into Evelyn's hair, pulled at it as
hard as he could, and then flew away, cawing with delight.

"That is one of his favourite tricks. We are so fond of him, and so
afraid that one day a cat will take him. But there is Mother Mary Hilda
coming to fetch you for your lesson."

Evelyn bade Sister Mary John good-bye, and went forward to meet her
instructress.

The morning seemed full of adventure. There were Miss Dingle, her pious
pictures, and the devil behind the gooseberry bushes. There was the
picturesque figure of Sister Mary John, digging, making ready for the
winter cabbages. There was the jackdaw, his story and his humours, and
there was her discovery of the genius of St. Teresa. All these things
had happened that morning, and Evelyn walked a little elated, her heart
full of spiritual enthusiasm. The project was already astir in her for
the acquisition of an edition in the original Spanish, and she looked
forward to a study of that language as a pleasant and suitable
occupation when she returned to London. She questioned Mother Mary Hilda
regarding the merits of the English translation; the French, she said,
she could read no longer. She described the worthy father's prose as
asthmatic; she laughed at his long, wheezy sentences, but Sister Mary
Hilda seemed