‘And you have lived—-’
‘Do not ask me! I cannot tell!’
And as she spoke, she turned her face upon the pillow, crying.
‘You shall tell me nothing,’ said the lady softly, ‘until you wish it of your own freewill. I can see that you have had sorrow, great sorrow; and that, unlike so many who come here, your speech is gentle, and your manner that of a lady. Take courage! Whatever your offence has been, whatever pain you have undergone, you are as safe now as a little child on its mother’s breast—no one can tempt you, no one can harm you, here.’
The wanderer turned her face again, and looked long and wistfully at the Sister; then she sighed deeply, while her tears still fell.
‘You have not told me what place this is, but I suppose it is some religious home. Well, I am not religious; I scarcely know what religion is. All I ask is a night’s shelter, and then—I will pay you for it, and go away.’
Sister Ursula’s face looked very grave.
‘We never accept payment from those who take shelter here; and you are mistaken—this is not a religious house in the sense you mean. True, we believe in one God and one Redeemer, and our experience teaches us that, for the truly sorrowful and penitent, knowledge of Christ the Saviour is the only preservation.’
The wanderer sighed drearily.
‘You are Roman Catholics, I suppose?’ she said, with a curious indifference. ‘I have heard they are good people.’