“No doubt we shall find him there,” I answered easily.
The Annandale station presented an appearance of unusual gaiety when we reached the main street of the village. There, to be sure, lay a private car on the siding, and on the platform was a group of twenty or more girls, with several of the brown-habited Sisters of St. Agatha. There was something a little foreign in the picture; the girls in their bright colors talking gaily, the Sisters in their somber garb hovering about, suggesting France or Italy rather than Indiana.
“I came here with the idea that St. Agatha’s was a charity school,” I remarked to the chaplain.
“Not a bit of it! Sister Theresa is really a swell, you know, and her school is hard to get into.”
“I’m glad you warned me in time. I had thought of sending over a sack of flour occasionally, or a few bolts of calico to help on the good work. You’ve saved my life.”
“I probably have. I might mention your good intentions to Sister Theresa.”
“Pray don’t. If there’s any danger of meeting her on that platform—”
“No; she isn’t coming down, I’m sure. But you ought to know her,—if you will pardon me. And Miss Devereux is charming,—but really I don’t mean to be annoying.”
“Not in the least. But under the circumstances,— the will and my probationary year,—you can understand—”
“Certainly. A man’s affairs are his own, Mr. Glenarm.”