"You have been gone only two or three hours," replied Mother Prudentia. "You followed Mother Bursar into the hall a little while after noon, and it is now just time for vespers. There, eat your soup, and do not talk."
We ate our soup, as we were bid, and then lay down. I soon fell into a troubled sleep, from which I waked many times crying and calling upon Amabel and Mother Prudentia. I took a severe cold, and Amabel was stiff and feverish; so that we were kept in bed for two or three days.
When we were quite well again, Mother Superior sent for us to her room and talked to us kindly, but very gravely, about our fault. Amabel, who was the least to blame of the two, said not a word in her own defence, but tried timidly to excuse me, on the ground that Desireè had dared me to do what I did.
"And do you consider that any excuse, my Aimeè, or does Lucille herself think so?" asked the lady, turning her penetrating eyes upon me. She had the most beautiful eyes I ever saw—clear gray, with very dilating pupils—and I used to believe she could read my very thoughts.
In my heart of hearts, I did think Desireè's conduct formed some excuse for me, but I dared not say so.
"Suppose, my child, that Desireè had dared you to steal something out of Mother Bursar's purse, or to murder her!"
"But that would be impossible, Reverend Mother," I faltered, thinking only of the murder, though I might well have included the other.
"Suppose it possible! Would the fact that you had been dared to do it excuse you?"
"No, Reverend Mother, but—"
"You pride yourself very much on your courage, my child," continued the lady; "but the fact is, that, in some respects, you are an arrant coward, and that cowardice is at the bottom of almost every serious fault you commit."