“No, child,” and it was almost her old genial voice. “The men have come back from the bush. But to-morrow they are going up the mountain. I’ve worked them up to that.”
“I’m glad,” said Mary thoughtfully. “For do you know, Sister, I am beginning to believe as the children do, that there really is a mollmeit up there and that she is at the bottom of all the disappearances.”
The blue eyes fastened themselves keenly on the girl’s face, then, “I have always believed it myself,” said Sister Joanna solemnly.
The Irish stew had only a faintly burnt flavour, and looked appetising enough in its dish; but the sight of it had a curious effect on Sister Joanna. She looked at it almost ravenously, then turned away as though the sight sickened her.
“No—no, I couldn’t eat any,” she muttered half to herself. “I’m not hungry, but to-morrow—to-morrow I will make myself a little curry. Curry always brings back my appetite and bucks me up when I am tired out.”
Mary’s own appetite had taken wings since that curious scene in the kitchen. Nevertheless she made a great pretence of hunger. Fortunately, Sister did not stay to see whether the large helping of stew was eaten, but rose and stumbled towards her room which was next to the dining-room. It was easy to see that she was dropping with fatigue. How could it be otherwise after two days of ceaseless activity during which she had eaten nothing? Her heavy pallid cheeks hung in haggard rolls about her jaws, and with the glare gone out of them, her eyes resembled two large blue beads stuck in a fat doll’s face.
“I’ll go to bed, Mary,” she said heavily. “I must get rest.”
“Yes, do, Sister. No Compline in the Oratory to-night, I suppose.”
Like a flash, energy came back into the old woman’s glance, and the haggard muscles of her face seemed to tighten; but Mary, though her heart had come bounding up into her throat, ate on placidly.