Presently the sound of music breaks in on the evening stillness, the sound of an organ responding to the touch of skilled fingers and blended with it the tones of women's voices. The nuns in a neighboring convent are chanting the evening office. The sound recalls the chapel at Saint Zita's, the orchard, the nuns, dear kind Reverend Mother. What peaceful, happy hours those were? Has she ever known real happiness since she quitted the quiet convent home of her childhood? Even in the days of her greatest triumphs, was there not always something she could not attain, the little bit more which was always wanting? But at Saint Zita's, how different, oh! how different! Happiness such as the world could not dream of ruled within its walls. She wonders what they are doing now, the dear nuns and Reverend Mother. They, too, are probably in the chapel reciting the office; some of them thinking of her perhaps. What would they say if they knew how false she has proven to all their teachings, how careless she has grown in the practice of that religion which is dearer to them than life itself?
A sentence in the last letter she received from Reverend Mother comes now to her mind. The letter reached her years before and has never been answered. The words are these:
"Dear child, you are successful and happy now, with the world at your feet, but if the day ever comes when all these things fall away from you and you stand in need of a true friend or of any assistance we can render, remember Saint Zita's is still your home and your old mother's heart is sick with longing for a sight of her child. Worldly joys must vanish, worldly hopes decay, but Saint Zita's and Reverend Mother will be here waiting for you."
How she longs for the peace and quiet of the old home and the comforting touch of Reverend Mother's kind arms about her! What is it that the nuns are singing! The "Magnificat." She listens in silence for a few moments, then, a strange smile curving her lips, she recites in unison with the choir:
"Deposuit potentes de sede. Yea, Lord, Thou hast indeed put down the mighty."
It is not until after the voices are stilled, long after the world is wrapped in slumber, that the girl turns from her open window and gathers together the small store of money on the table beside her, repeating to herself the while, slowly, half absently:
"I wonder; I wonder."
Another year has rolled around and again the June roses in the garden at Saint Zita's fill the summer air with their heavy fragrance. The convent door opens and Reverend Mother steps out into the portico accompanied by a caller, one of the "old girls" come back to pay a fleeting visit to the home of her childhood. The nun has changed but little with the passing of the years, but those who love her best note with anxious eyes the slight stoop of the shoulders and feebleness of gait.
The visitor glances idly at a lay-sister who is busily engaged sweeping the long flight of stone steps leading from the portico to the driveway below. Her glance passes over the insignificant figure of the lay-sister, and, looking across to the pine grove on the hill, she speaks to Reverend Mother.