"Maria!" cried the abbess, impatiently. "What follies are you singing? I could hear you in my room!"
Maria Addolorata started and rose from her seat, still holding her needlework, and turning half round towards her superior, with suddenly downcast eyes. The elder lady came forward with slow dignity and walked as far as the door of the balcony, where she stood still for a moment, gazing at the beautiful sky. She was not a stately woman, for she was too short and stout, but she had that calm air of assured superiority which takes the place of stateliness, and which seems to belong especially to those who occupy important positions in the Church. Her large features, though too heavy, were imposing in their excessive pallor, while the broad, dark brown shadows all around and beneath the large black eyes gave the face a depth of expression which did not, perhaps, wholly correspond with the original character. It was a striking face, and considering the wide interval between the ages of the abbess and her niece, and the natural difference of colouring, there was a strong family resemblance in the two women.
The abbess sat down upon the only chair, and Maria remained standing before her, her sewing in her hands.
"I have often told you that you must not sing in your cell," said the abbess, in a coldly severe tone.
Maria's shoulders shook her veil a little, but she still looked at the floor.
"I cannot help it," she answered in a constrained voice. "I did not know that I was singing—"
"That is ridiculous! How can one sing, and not know it? You are not deaf. At least, you do not sing as though you were. I will not have it. I could hear you as far away as my own room—a love-song, too!"
"The love of death," suggested Maria.
"It makes no difference," answered the elder lady. "You disturb the peace of the sisters with your singing. You know the rule, and you must obey it, like the rest. If you must sing, then sing in church."
"I do."