My mother listened as long as she could, and then—her beautiful white face distorted by pain—she broke in on the Father's message with a cry of protest.
"But she is so young! Such a child! Only seven years old! How can any one think of sending such a little one away from home?"
Father Dan tried to pacify her. It was true I was very young, but then the Reverend Mother was such a good woman. She would love me and care for me as if I were her own child. And then the good nuns, God bless their holy souls. . . .
"But Mary is all I have," cried my mother, "and if they take her away from me I shall be broken-hearted. At such a time too! How cruel they are! They know quite well what the doctor says. Can't they wait a little longer?"
I could see that Father Dan was arguing against himself, for his eyes filled as he said:
"It's hard, I know it's hard for you, my daughter. But perhaps it's best for the child that she should go away from home—perhaps it's all God's blessed and holy will. Remember there's a certain person here who isn't kind to our little innocent, and is making her a cause of trouble. Not that I think she is actuated by evil intentions. . . ."
"But she is, she is," cried my mother, who was growing more and more excited.
"Then all the more reason why Mary should go to the convent—for a time at all events."
My mother began to waver, and she said:
"Let her be sent to a Convent in the island then."