“I'm no the matron, miss,” she said. “The matron's gone—fled awa' like a' the lave o' the grand Sisters, thinking sure the mob would mak' this house their next point of attack.”
“Then I know whom you are—you're Mrs. Callender,” said Glory.
“Jane Callender I am, young leddy. And who may ye be yersel'?”
“I'm a friend of John's, and I want to know if there's anything——”
“You're no the lassie hersel', are ye? You are, though; I see fine you are! Come, kiss me—again, lassie! Oh, dear! oh, dear! And to think we must be meeting same as this! For a' the world it's like clasping hands ower the puir laddie's grave!”
They cried in each other's arms, and then both felt better.
“And the children,” said Glory, “who's looking after them if the matron and Sisters are gone?”
“Just me and the puir bairns theirsel's, and the wee maid of all wark that opened the door til ye. But come your ways and look at them.”
The dormitory was in an upper story. Mrs. Gallender had opened the door softly, and Glory stepped into a large dark room in which fifty children lay asleep. Their breathing was all that could be heard, and it seemed to fill the air as with the rustle of a gentle breeze. But it was hard to look upon them and to think of their only earthly father in his cell. With full hearts and dry throats the two women returned to a room below.
By this time the square, which before had only shown people standing in doorways and lounging at street corners, was crowded with a noisy rabble. They were shouting out indecent jokes about “monks,” “his reverend lordship,” and “doctors of diwinity”; and a small gang of them had got a rope which they were trying to throw as a lasso round a figure of the Virgin in a niche over the porch. The figure came down at length amid shrieks of delight, and when the police charged the mob they flung stones which broke the church windows.