"Is he very bad?"
"Yes; but of course we cannot say just yet. We will do all we can; if it is useless the fault will not be laid at our door," answers mother St. Marguerite, selecting a certain key from a string hanging at her side.
Sister Jean hurries to her room, removes her long black cloak, and sits down for a moment to collect her tired senses. No, she will not rest now, there may be something she can do for the sufferer down stairs. She goes down, opens the door softly, and enters. The room is so dark, that for a minute or two nothing is discernable. Then mother St. Marguerite steps out from the shadows, and says in a whisper:
"Just sit by and watch for any movement." Then she and the doctor pass out, and Sister Jean approaches the bed where her patient lies.
"God help me," she cries, falling on her knees beside the bed. "Dare I stay here? Can my strength sustain me, to remain? Oh! will it? Has Heaven indeed at last avenged me?"
The eyes of the sick man are upon her, she holds her breath, then the room seems to swim around, as the weak voice says distinctly:
"Jantie, is this my Jantie?" The eyes close, and Cyril Fanchon is again unconscious. When five minutes later mother St. Marguerite enters, she finds the sister in a dead faint near the door.
Two months later, on a cold December afternoon, when the snow is piled up in high drifts around the convent of St. Marguerite, a man, muffled in furs, is walking up and down impatiently in the parlour or visitors' room at the convent. From the next room comes the music of a violin, it is evident one of the pupils is taking lessons. The door opens, he turns abruptly.
"Sir Barry Traleigh."
"Jantie!" sister Jean's hands are clasped warmly in the man's. "The same pretty Jantie of old, only a litter paler. Why did you run away, little one, and leave us all?" Sir Barry asks playfully.