"To spend a day with you in the big city down there!" she cried. "Oh, it will be lovely! We can see so many things and we can talk about home."
That seemed to be indeed her greatest pleasure. The permission was granted, with even better terms than I had expected; for she was to come down on the following Tuesday morning and remain with me till the day after.
"It is a privilege we do not often grant," the nun said, smiling. "But in this child's case we think it is really essential. The change from a widely different life was so very sudden."
"So you are to come on Tuesday, and this is Sunday," I told Winifred.
Her eyes fairly sparkled with delight, as she danced along by my side with something of her old gaiety. "There is only one day between. To-morrow I shall study very hard, and say all my lessons and practise for my singing lesson on Thursday, and do everything well."
I smiled.
"Father Owen would say you should do that every day," I reminded her. "You remember how he pointed out that the robin did his work in storm or sunshine."
"Oh, but 'tis much easier to work in sunshine!" Winifred cried out.
"I suppose it is," laughed I; "but that is no reason why you shouldn't try to do what is harder."
"I do try," Winifred said earnestly. "I get up the moment the bell rings in the morning—though I don't find that as hard as some of the girls do, for I was often out on the hills at sunrise. Then I'm one of the first in the chapel; and in class I study my lessons and I hardly ever talk. At recreation I don't feel much like playing yet, but perhaps I shall after a while—when I know some of the girls better."