she certainly had no business to be, and that
Unorna had acted like a guilty woman, there was little to lay hold of in
the way of fact.

"My child," she said at last, "until we know more of the truth, and have
better advice than we can give each other, let us not speak of it to
any one of the sisters. In the morning I will tell all I have seen in
confession, and then I shall get advice. Perhaps you should do the same.
I know nothing of what happened before you left your room. Perhaps you
have something to reproach yourself with. It is not for me to ask. Think
it over."

"I will tell you the whole truth," Beatrice answered, resting her elbow
upon the polished shelf and supporting her head in her hand, while she
looked earnestly into Sister Paul's faded eyes.

"Think well, my daughter. I have no right to any confession from you. If
there is anything----"

"Sister Paul--you are a woman, and I must have a woman's help. I have
learned something to-night which will change my whole life. No--do not
be afraid--I have done nothing wrong. At least, I hope not. While my
father lived, I submitted. I hoped, but I gave no sign. I did not even
write, as I once might have done. I have often wished that I had--was
that wrong?"

"But you have told me nothing, dear child. How can I answer you?" The
nun was perplexed.

"True. I will tell you. Sister Paul--I am five-and-twenty years old,
I am a grown woman and this is no mere girl's love story. Seven years
ago--I was only eighteen then--I was with my father as I have been ever
since. My mother had not been dead long then--perhaps that is the reason
why I seemed to be everything to my father. But they had not been
happy together, and I had loved her best. We were travelling--no
matter where--and then I met the man I have loved. He was not of our
country--that is, of my father's. He was of the same people as my
mother. Well--I loved him. How dearly you must guess, and try to
understand. I could not tell you that. No one could. It began gradually,
for he was often with us in those days. My father liked him for his wit,
his learning, though he was young; for his strength and manliness--for a
hundred reasons which were nothing to me. I would have loved him had
he been a cripple, poor, ignorant, despised, instead of being what he
was--the grandest, noblest man God ever made. For I did not love him
for his face, nor for his courtly ways, nor for such gifts as other men
might have, but for