the other. Unorna was silent
for a few minutes, plucking at the sable lining of the cloak which lay
beside her upon the sofa where she had dropped it.

"Let us talk of other things," she said at last. "Talk of the other lady
who is here. Who is she? What brings her into retreat at this time of
year?"

"Poor thing--yes, she is very unhappy," answered Sister Paul. "It is a
sad story, so far as I have heard it. Her father is just dead, and she
is alone in the world. The Abbess received a letter yesterday from the
Cardinal Archbishop, requesting that we would receive her, and this
morning she came. His eminence knew her father, it appears. She is only
to be here for a short time, I believe, until her relations come to take
her home to her own country. Her father was taken ill in a country place
near the city, which he had hired for the shooting season, and the poor
girl was left all alone out there. The Cardinal thought she would be
safer and perhaps less unhappy with us while she is waiting."

"Of course," said Unorna, with a faint interest. "How old is she, poor
child?"

"She is not a child, she must be five and twenty years old, though
perhaps her sorrow makes her look older than she is."

"And what is her name?"

"Beatrice. I cannot remember the name of the family."

Unorna started.

CHAPTER XIX

"What is it?" asked the nun, noticing Unorna's sudden movement.

"Nothing; the name of Beatrice is familiar to me, that is all. It
suggested something."

Though Sister Paul was as unworldly as five and twenty years of
cloistered life can make a woman who is naturally simple in mind and
devout in thought, she possessed that faculty of quick observation which
is learned as readily, and exercised perhaps as constantly, in the midst
of a small community, where each member is in some measure dependent
upon all the rest for the daily pittance of ideas, as in wider spheres
of life.

"You may have seen this lady, or you may have heard of her," she said.

"I would like to see her," Unorna answered thoughtfully.

She was thinking of all the possibilities in the case. She remembered
the clearness and precision of the Wanderer's first impression, when
he first told her how he had seen Beatrice in the Teyn Kirche, and she
reflected that the name was a very uncommon one. The Beatrice of his
story too had a father and no other relation, and was supposed to be
travelling with him. By the uncertain light in the corridor Un