"That's the world," she explained; "morning down on the bay; the people working, scolding, swearing; don't you hate all that?"
"We are not near enough to hear it."
"But if you have heard it once you can imagine it. And some music isn't much better. Mam'selle plays things that set my teeth on edge. Do you know what your soul is?"
Laverne was startled. "Why," hesitatingly, "it is the part that goes to heaven."
"Well—heaven must be sweet and soft and fair, if it is full of angels. And why don't we keep to the soft and lovely sides of everything if we are to go there. Is kneeling on a hard stone floor in a convent at all like heaven?"
"I should think not."
"Mam'selle considers it useful discipline. Why, it is being dead to be shut up in a cold, dark cell. And I think you are taken up in strong, tender arms, and wafted above the clouds, like this——"
Then she began to play again. The sound stole along softly, halting a little, murmuring, comforting, entreating, floating on and on to sounds so sweet that the tears did overflow Laverne's eyes, and yet she was not crying.
Victor glanced through the wide doorway.
"Why, that child has even found a way to Isola's heart," he said.