But Sister Angela was mistaken. Mary knew more than she had been permitted to know.
A closed door to Mary meant seeking access through other channels. Sister Constance had not screened the windows of the west chamber which opened on the roof of the porch and were next to the window of Mary's small chamber. She had forgotten to ward against the startling sound of a baby's cry. But Mary, the night that Becky had left her burden to the care of Sister Angela, had heard that cry and it reached to the hidden depth of the girl's nature. It chilled her, then set her blood racing hotly. She got up and went to the window—it was moonlight in The Gap and the night was full of a rising wind that rattled the vines and set the leaves swirling.
Covering herself with a dark shawl, she crept from her window and, clinging close to the house, reached the west chamber.
Inside, by the light of a candle, Sister Constance sat, hushing to sleep a little child! The sight was burned upon Mary's consciousness as if Fate pressed every detail there so it might not be forgotten. Mary saw the small, puckered face. It was individual and distinct.
She almost slipped from her place on the roof; her breath came so hard that she feared Sister Constance might hear, and she groped her way back.
All next day Mary worked silently but with such haste that Sister Janice took her sharply to task.
"'Tis the ungodly as leaves the dust under the mats, child," she cautioned.
"Yes, Sister." Mary attacked the mats!
"And a burnt loaf cries for forgiveness."
"Yes, Sister, but the burnt loaf I will myself eat to the last crust."