"Therefore, I may be the more safely told. I am not affected by great catastrophes from a humane point of view."
"Well," she said, busying herself about the room with quick and noiseless movements, "but it is always terrible to hear of such a thing when one reflects that we are all so unprepared."
"For what, my sister?"
"For death," she answered, with a look of awe in the most innocent eyes in the world.
"Three hundred people," she answered. "The passengers and crew of the Principe Amadeo—a large steamer that sailed last night from Genoa, with emigrants for South America."
"And all are drowned?" I asked, after a pause, thankful that my face was in the shadow of the curtain.
"All, except two of the crew. The steamer had only left the harbour an hour before, and all the passengers were at dinner. There came, I think, a fog, and in the darkness a collision occurred. The Principe Amadeo went down in five minutes."
She spoke quietly, and with that calm which religion, doubtless, gave her. Indeed, her only thought seemed to be that these people had passed to their account without the ministrations of the church.
She soon left me, having my promise to sleep quietly and at once. Sœur Renée, despite her grey hairs and the wrinkles that the years (for her life seemed purged of other cause) had left, was an easy victim to deception.