He had been gone a week when the Mother Superior sent for Carlotta.
“Come here, my child,” she said, “I want to talk to you about your future. We must discuss what you are to do.”
“I do not understand,” said Carlotta.
“My poor child, it is time you were told the truth,” and she recounted the story of her mother, and of her treatment. Carlotta could have died with shame; her sensitive soul was deeply wounded. That she had been kept on out of charity, a foundling; it was awful.
“And so you see, my dear,” the Mother continued, “we must look out for something for you. We have places where we train girls, and I think we can get you into one of those.”
“And I am to leave here?” Carlotta gasped.
“I am afraid so, my dear child, the rules will not allow you to stay after you are seventeen, and that will be in a few months.”
She went on talking quietly, but Carlotta heard nothing. It was as though she were sinking in deep waters, and a faint sound of a voice far away was speaking.
She did not cry, but her face was white and pinched.
“You understand?” asked the Mother and kissed her.