“Oh, how he preached, that man! How his words poured out like a river in spring and carried all before them like that river in a freshet! Long ere he was done I was on my knees crying my heart out, and bowing myself to God in a life of sanctity and religion,—had he given me the chance, I would have dedicated myself as a novice that very night; and before he was done I had whispered to Inez,—
“‘Take your vows with me to-morrow,’ but she replied,—
“‘Yon comrade of the friar is no monk!’ And looking where she looked I saw close by the door where the Dominican had placed him a man in a friar’s robe and cowl to be sure, but with bold black eyes that gazed like those of a caged bird at all around, resting most often upon Inez and me, who were the only ones who wore not the sisters’ livery, but our own white school frocks and little caps. Somehow the sight of that face and the regard of those bold eyes scattered all my holy mood as the sun scorches up the dew and— But there, there, I’ll say naught to shock you, pale saint. ’Twas a fair picture, though, was’t not?”
“Yes, passing fair,” replied Lora dreamily, “and I were well content to spend my life in such a blessed retreat.”
“Your life, maiden! Nay, you have faith in God?”
“Why surely, Gillian! Who has not?” And Lora’s clear gray eyes rested in a sort of alarm upon the sombre face of the girl at her feet, who only shook her head, murmuring,—
“And God will care for his own.”