“Grant my soul Eyes,” she prayed, cheerfully completing her task.
In the corridor, being a general holiday, all was yet quite still. A sound, as of gentle snoring, came indeed from behind more than one closed door, and the new pensionnaire was preparing to beat a retreat, when she perceived, in the cloister, the dumpish form of Old Jane.
Seated in the sun by the convent well, the Porteress was sharing a scrap of breakfast with the birds.
“You’re soonish for Mass, love,” she broke out, her large archaic features surcharged with smiles.
“It’s such a perfect morning, I felt I must come down.”
“I’ve seen many a more promising sunrise before now, my dear, turn to storm and blast! An orange sky overhead, brings back to me the morning that I was received; ah, I shall never forget, as I was taking my Vows, a flash of forked lightning, and a clap of Thunder (Glory be to God!) followed by a water-spout (Mercy save us!) bursting all over my Frinch lace veil....”
“What is your book, Old Jane?”
“Something light, love, as it’s a holiday.”
“Pascal....”
“Though it’s mostly a Fête day I’ve extra to do!” the Porteress averred, dropping her eyes to the great, glistening spits, upon the Cloister flags. It was her boast she could distinguish Monsignor Potts’ round splash from Father Geordie Picpus’ more dapper fine one, and again the Abbess’ from Mother Martinez de la Rosa’s—although these indeed shared a certain opaque sameness.