"If it is about Sister Catherine's vows—"
"Yes, it is about them I've come, and I must see the Reverend Mother."
The lay-sister said Sister Catherine was going to be clothed at the end of the week.
"Well, that is just the reason I've come here."
On that the lay-sister led him into the parlour, and went in search of the Reverend Mother.
The floor was so thickly bees-waxed that the rug slipped under his feet, and, afraid lest he might fall down, he stood quite still, impressed by the pious pictures on the walls, and by the large books upon the table, and by the poor-box, and by the pious inscriptions. He began to think how much easier was this pious life than the life of the world—the rearing of children, the failure of crops, and the loneliness. Here life slips away without one perceiving it, and it seemed a pity to bring her back to trouble. He stood holding his hat in his old hands, and the time seemed very long. At last the door opened, and a tall woman with sharp, inquisitive eyes came in.
"You have come to speak to me about Sister Catherine?"
"Yes, my lady."
"And what have you got to tell me about her?"
"Well, my son thought and I thought last night—we were all thinking we had better tell you—last night was the night that my son came back."