Sister Gertrude entered, but so preoccupied was she that she was utterly unconscious of her presence.
“You are unwell, Jean,” she said, in her soft, refined voice, for before entering the convent five years ago she had moved in society, being the daughter of a well-known Paris banker. “Tell me, dear, what ails you?”
Jean started, and stared at her in amazement.
“I—I—oh, there is nothing,” she faltered. “I don’t feel very well—that’s all.”
The newspaper lay on the floor, where it had fallen from her white, nerveless fingers.
In Jean’s face was a hard, haggard look, and Sister Gertrude, a woman of the world, noted it, and wondered what could have affected her in those few moments of her absence.
“Tell me, dear, how you feel? Can I get you anything?” she asked her friend, to whom she was so much attached.
“Nothing, thanks,” was her reply, with a great effort. “I shall be quite well soon, I hope.”
Sister Gertrude advanced towards her, and, placing her hand upon the girl’s shoulder tenderly, said: