Marion's brush dropped from her hand. She was astonished beyond measure, for it was the first intimation she had received of such a feeling on Claire's part. "Go back to the convent," she cried, "and give up you art!—Claire, are you mad?"
"Very sane, my dear," answered Claire, smiling. "I have disliked to tell you about it, because I knew you would be sorry. I am sorry, too, that it should be necessary for us to part; but I grow daily more certain that my vocation lies not in the world but in the cloister."
"I am more than sorry—I am shocked!" said Marion. "With your talent!—why, all the artists whom we know say that your future is certain to be a brilliant one. And to bury that in a cloister!—Claire, it should not be allowed!"
Claire remembered what other voice had said this, almost in the same words; but she was no more moved by it now than she had been then.
"Who should prevent it?" she asked. "If you, for instance, had the power, would you venture to prevent it—to say that any soul should serve the world instead of serving God?"
"That is not a fair way to put it. Cannot people serve God in the world as well as in the cloister?"
"Surely yes, if it is their vocation to do so. But if one has a vocation for the religious life—if that imperative call is heard, which cannot be realized except by those who hear it, bidding one arise and go forth,—then one cannot serve God as well in the world as in the cloister."
"But, Claire, may you not imagine this call? I cannot believe that God would have given you such a talent if He had not meant you to make the most of it. Think how much good you might do if you remained in the world—how much money you might make, as well as how much fame you might win!"
"My dear," said Claire, with gentle solemnity, "how much will either money or fame weigh in the scales of eternity? I want to work for eternity rather than for time; and I am, happily, free to do so—to go back to the cloister, where I left my heart. Do not make it painful for me. Try to reconcile yourself to it, and to believe that God makes no mistakes."
"I cannot be reconciled," said Marion. "It is not only that I cannot bear to give you up—that I cannot bear for you to resign the success of which I have been proud in anticipation,—but I am selfish, too. I think of my own life. You are my one anchor in the world, and I have been happy in the thought of our living together, of our—"