“Well!” I said with a sigh, “I suppose I never had one.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Sister Gaillarde. “If you mean you never had a liking for the life, that may be true—you know more about that than I; but if you mean you do not fill your place well, and do your duty as well as you know how, and a deal better than most folks—why, again I say, stuff and nonsense! You are not perfect, I suppose. If you ever see any body who is, I should like to know her name. It won’t be Gaillarde—that I know!”
I wonder whose daughter the Lady Joan is! Something in her eyes puzzles me so, as if she reminded me of somebody whom I had known, long, long ago—some Sister when I was novice, or perchance even some one whom I knew in my early childhood, before I was professed at all. They are dark eyes, but not at all like Margaret’s. Margaret’s are brown, but these are dark grey, with long black lashes; and they do not talk—they only look as if they could, if one knew how to make them. The Lady Joan is very quiet and attentive to her religious duties; I think Sister Ada’s fears may sleep. She is not at all likely to unsettle any body. She talks very little, except when necessary. Two months, I hear, she will remain; and I do not think she will be any trouble to one of us. Even Sister Gaillarde says, “She is a decent woman: she’ll do.” And that means a good deal—from Sister Gaillarde.
I have the chance to speak to Margaret now. Of course a Mother can call any Sister to her cell if needful; and no one may ask why except another Mother. I must be careful not to seem to prefer Margaret above the rest, and all the more because she is my own sister. But last night I really had some directions to give her, and I summoned her to my cell. When I had told her what I wanted, I was about to dismiss her with “Pax tibi!” as usual, but Margaret’s talking eyes told me she had something to say.
I said,—“Well! what is it, Margaret?”
“May I speak to my sister Annora for a moment, and not to the Mother?” she asked, with a look half amused and half sad.
“Thou mayest always do that, dear heart,” said I.
(I hope it was not wicked.)
“Then—Annora, for whom is the Lady Joan looking?”
“Looking! I understand thee not, Margaret.”