“I wish for it so much that if I’d seen her happy and at peace here I would not have said one word—not one, to make her think I wanted her back. But I haven’t even seen her—I’m only told that she’s very ill, and not allowed to go to her. I will go—it’s wicked to keep me from her.”
“Now, now,” said Mrs. Mulholland soothingly.
The door opened softly.
“Here’s Mother Juliana. This poor child is nearly frantic, Mother. She can’t understand not being allowed to go to Sister Frances Mary, you see.”
Mrs. Mulholland looked almost pleadingly at the tall, gentle old nun who had just entered.
“Ah,” said Mother Juliana, in a strong, slow voice that came oddly from her slight, bent figure with its habitual stoop. “I have brought you a message, then, that will be of comfort to you. Your sister is awake, and I said to her that you would like a message, but I did not tell her you were here—it was wiser not. She is very weak, la pauvre, but she whispered so softly: ‘Tell her: My love, and I am so happy.’”
“Thank God for all His mercies,” said Mrs. Mulholland with a sort of matter-of-fact promptness. “Is she better?”
“I do not think her better,” said the nun quietly. “I do not think she will get better in this world. God wants her for Himself.”
Rosamund looked dumbly at them both.
“She does not suffer,” gently said Mother Juliana with the same faint, remote smile. “She is very quiet and peaceful—and, as she said, so happy! She has the smile of a little child, mademoiselle.”