Frances lay awake till dawn, heavy with sleep, yet too much excited to sleep, and thanking God with all the fervour of her innocent heart.
XXII
“MA MÈRE, may one ask if any of Sister Frances’ family are coming for the ceremony to-morrow?” inquired the American novice at the evening recreation on Easter Sunday.
“Her sister is coming for the day, and perhaps a friend. The poor child has no parents.”
“Perhaps that is as well,” said a little French novice calmly. “It is such a sacrifice for the parents, however pious, and the thought of their grief must be a distraction.”
Her neighbour, a placid Spanish girl, looked surprised. In Andalusia the parents of the Lola or Pepita who had “la vocacion” would let her go with pride and joy, although they could not, like these rich Americans, hope to see her for the yearly visit permitted by the regulations, when, as would probably happen at the end of her novitiate, she should be sent away to some house of the Order overseas. She herself had only left home some few months ago, but even her little sister Conchita, who was only ten, had been too glad of the great honour and joy of seeing Maria a nun, to cry at losing her. But she kept her thoughts to herself and remained silent.
The American novice, with a sudden recollection that hurt like a physical pang, of a lonely, bewildered old couple in New England, as unrelenting, as uncomprehending in their condemnation of their only daughter’s lapse into an alien and idolatrous creed, quickly changed the conversation by asking another question of Mère Thérèse.
“What name is she to receive, ma Mère?”
“Supposing you try to guess?”
The novice-mistress looked cheerfully at one smiling face after another, as the novices vied with one another in childish enjoyment.