“He taught me English, and French, and German. He taught me mathematics. And he taught me all I know of history, and of the world,” the girl replied.
“Yes, yes,” the priest went on hurriedly; “but these other things, these religious and philosophical notions, who taught you these?”
The Sister drew closer and strained her ears to hear.
The girl looked down as she answered softly, “God.”
The priest’s head sank upon his breast. He reached out and laid a hand on hers. “I believe you,” he said, in a voice scarcely audible. “I believe you––for we do not teach such things.”
The girl looked up with luminous eyes. “Then,” she said quizzically, “you are not really a priest.”
“Father Waite!” The Sister’s voice rang sternly through the quiet chapel. The priest started to his feet in confusion. “The dinner-bell will ring in a few minutes,” continued the Sister, regarding the man severely.
“Ah, true,” he murmured, hastily glancing at the clock. “The time passed so rapidly––a––a––this girl––”
“Leave the girl to me,” replied the Sister coldly. “Unless,” she added, “you consider her deranged. Coming from that hot country suddenly into this cold climate might––”
“No, no,” interrupted the priest hastily; “she seems uncommonly strong mentally. She has some notions that are a––somewhat different from ours––that is––but I will come and have a further talk with her.”