“Did you mean it for her?” asked Joan, in so low a voice that only those on each side of her could hear.
“I meant it for whoever deserved it,” was Sister Gaillarde’s reply.
Just then Mother Joan came in and sat down.
“Sister Ada,” she said, “Sister Marian tells me, that my Lady has given orders for that rough black rug that nobody likes to be put on your bed this week.”
“No, has she?” cried Sister Ada, in tones which, if she were delighted, very much belied her feelings. “How exceedingly annoying! What could my Lady be thinking of? She knows how I detest that rug. I shall not be able to sleep a wink. Well! I suppose I must submit; it is my duty. But I do feel it hard that all the disagreeable things should come to me. Surely one of the novices might have had that; it would have been good for somebody whose will was not properly mortified. Really, I do think—Oh, well, I had better not say any more.”
Nor did she: but that night, as I was going round the children’s dormitory, little Damia looked up at me.
“Mother, dear, what’s the matter with Mother Ada?”
“What did she say, my child?”
“Oh, she didn’t say any thing; but she has looked all day long as if she would like to hit somebody.”
“Somebody vexed her a little, perhaps,” said I. “Very likely she will be all right to-morrow.”