“But,” exclaimed Evelyn, “they told me she would die within the fortnight, so she may be dead now; if not to-day, to-morrow or after.  I hadn’t thought of that....  I shall never forget her, every few minutes she coughed—­that horrible cough!  I thought she was going to die before my eyes, but in the intervals she chattered and even laughed, and no word of complaint escaped her.  She was only twenty-one ... had known nothing of life; all was unknown to her, except God, and she was going to Heaven.  She seemed quite happy, yet to me it seemed the saddest sight in the world....  She’ll be buried in a few days in the sunniest corner of the garden, away from the house—­that is their graveyard.  The mother Prioress, the founder of the convent, is buried there; a little dedicatory chapel has been built, and on the green turf, tall wooden crosses mark the graves of six nuns; next week there’ll be one more cross.”

The conversation paused, and Evelyn sat looking into the corner of the room, her large clear eyes wide open and fixed.  Presently she said—­

“Father,” I’ve often thought I should like to be a nun.”

“You a nun!  And with that voice!”

She looked at him, smiling a little.

“What matter?”

“What matter!  Have you not thought—­but I understand; you mean that your voice is wasted here, that we shall never have the means to go abroad....  But we shall.”

“Father, dear, I wasn’t thinking of that.  I do believe that means will be found to send me abroad to study.  But what then?  Shall I be happy?”

“Fame, fortune, art!”

“Those nuns have none of those things, and they are happy.  As that old lady said their happiness comes from within.”

“And you’ll be happy with those things, as happy as they are without them.  You’re in a melancholy mood; come, we’ll think of the work before us.  I’ve decided that we give our concert the week after next.  That will give us ten clear days.”

He entered into the reasons which had induced him to give this concert.  But Evelyn had heard all about the firm of musical publishers, who possibly might ask him to bring up the old instruments to London, and give a concert in a fashionable West-end hall.  Seeing that she was not listening, he broke off his narrative with the remark that he had received a letter that morning from Sir Owen.

“Is he coming home?  I thought he was going round the world and would not be back for a year.”

“He has changed his mind.  This letter was posted at Malta—­a most interesting letter it is;” and while Mr. Innes read Sir Owen’s account of the discovery of the musical text of an ancient hymn which had been unearthed in his presence, Evelyn wondered if he had come home for her or—­the thought entered her heart with a pang—­if he had come home for the red-haired woman.  Mr. Innes stopped suddenly in his reading, and asked her of what she was thinking.