“I beg your pardon,” said I; “I ought to have chosen my expressions more carefully—”
“Not,” interposed Mother Martha, nodding to show me that my apology need not be finished—“not that it is exactly a relic in the strict Catholic sense of the word; but there were circumstances in the life of the person who made it—” Here she stopped, and looked at me doubtfully.
“Circumstances, perhaps, which it is not considered advisable to communicate to strangers,” I suggested.
“Oh, no!” answered the nun, “I never heard that they were to be kept a secret. They were not told as a secret to me.”
“Then you know all about them?” I asked.
“Certainly. I could tell you the whole history of the wooden cross; but it is all about Catholics, and you are a Protestant.”
“That, Mother Martha, does not make it at all less interesting to me.”
“Does it not, indeed?” exclaimed the nun, innocently. “What a strange man you are! and what a remarkable religion yours must be! What do your priests say about ours? Are they learned men, your priests?”
I felt that my chance of hearing Mother Martha’s story would be a poor one indeed, if I allowed her to begin a fresh string of questions. Accordingly, I dismissed the inquiries about the clergy of the Established Church with the most irreverent briefness, and recalled her attention forthwith to the subject of the wooden cross.
“Yes, yes,” said the good-natured nun; “surely you shall hear all I can tell you about it; but—” she hesitated timidly, “but I must ask the Mother Superior’s leave first.”