Then she showed Frances what had to be done, and they worked quickly and in silence until the bell rang.
At the evening recreation the novices all congratulated Frances, and called her “Sœur Françoise Marie,” and she was ashamed of the tears that she could not stop, although no one made any comment on them.
The evening recital of the office calmed her at last, and she again renewed her offering of herself and of all that she held dear.
That night, in the dormitory, she had occasion to go to the can of luke-warm water that stood beside the uncurtained window at the end of the long room. Forgetful for a moment of her surroundings, Frances looked out on the still patch of garden lying below, bathed in a white flood of moonlight.
Just so had she seen the garden at Porthlew on summer evenings, just so would it be flooded now. The same white light would stream now, strong and peaceful, over that smaller garden, on a hill above the Wye Valley. It was perhaps visible from the surroundings, unknown to Frances, amidst which Rosamund now was.
The thought, which was a sufficiently obvious one, suddenly struck Frances, in her overwrought state, as strange and piteous.
She looked out at the moonlit garden with a rush of longing and sorrow for Rosamund.
A great clock outside struck the half-hour with a loud clang, making her start violently.
Half-past nine—and it was the evening of her prise d’habit.
Sister Frances Mary turned from the window and went into her cell.