SISTER CLAIRE:
And greedy!
MOTHER MARGUERITE (smiling):
Ay, and kind!
SISTER CLAIRE:
Is it not true, pray, Mother Marguerite,
That he has come, each week, on Saturday
For ten years, to the convent?
MOTHER MARGUERITE:
Ay! and more!
Ever since—fourteen years ago—the day
His cousin brought here, ’midst our woolen coifs,
The worldly mourning of her widow’s veil,
Like a blackbird’s wing among the convent doves!
SISTER MARTHA:
He only has the skill to turn her mind
From grief—unsoftened yet by Time—unhealed!
ALL THE SISTERS:
He is so droll!—It’s cheerful when he comes!—
He teases us!—But we all like him well!—
—We make him pasties of angelica!
SISTER MARTHA:
But, he is not a faithful Catholic!
SISTER CLAIRE:
We will convert him!
THE SISTERS:
Yes! Yes!
MOTHER MARGUERITE:
I forbid,
My daughters, you attempt that subject. Nay,
Weary him not—he might less oft come here!