They were sitting on the terrace, and a mauve sunset faded in the grey sky.  There was a strange wistfulness in the autumn air and in the dim garden where the gentle nuns were taking their recreation.  There was a subtle harmony in the grey habits and floating veils; they blended and mingled with the blue mist that was rising among the trees.  And a pale light fell across the faded lawns, and Evelyn looked into the light, and felt the pang that the passing of things brings into the heart.  This spectacle of life seemed to her strangely pathetic, and it seemed to mean something which eluded her, and which she would have given a great deal to have been able to express.  Music alone could express the yearning that haunted her heart, the plaint of the Rhine Maidens was the nearest to what she felt, and she began to sing their song.  Sister Mary John asked her eagerly what she was singing.  She would have told her, but the Reverend Mother grew impatient with Sister Mary John.

“You must be introduced to Mother Mary Hilda, our novice mistress, then you will know all the mothers except our dear Mother Christina, who is quite an invalid now, and rarely leaves her cell.”

On St. Peter’s path a little group of nuns were walking up and down, pressing round a central figure.  They were faint grey shadows, and their meaning would not be distinguished in the violet dusk.  It was like a half-effaced picture in which the figures are nearly lost in the background; their voices, however, sounded clear, and their laughter was mysterious and far distant, yet distinct in the heart.  Evelyn again began to hum the plaint of the Rhine Maidens.  But the voices of the novices were more joyous, for they, Evelyn thought, have renounced both love and gold.  The Reverend Mother clapped her hands to attract attention, and one of the novices, it was Sister Veronica, ran to them.

“Ask Mother Mary Hilda to come and speak to me, Veronica.”

“Yes, Reverend Mother;” and Veronica ran with the message without once looking at Evelyn.  Mother Mary Hilda crossed the lawn toward them, and Evelyn noticed her gliding, youthful walk.  She was younger than the prioress or even the sub-prioress.  And she had that attractive youthfulness of manner which often survives in the cloister after middle age.

“Here is Miss Innes,” said the prioress; “I know you wished to make her acquaintance.”

“Yes, indeed.”

Evelyn noticed the bright eyes and the small, clearly cut nose and the pointed chin, but her liveliest sensation was of Mother Hilda’s hand; so small was it and soft that it seemed like a little crushed bird in Evelyn’s hand, and Evelyn did not think that hers was a large hand.

“I am sure, Miss Innes, you feel that you have been thanked sufficiently for all you have done for us, but you’ll forgive us if we feel that we cannot thank you often enough.  Your singing at Benediction to-day was a great pleasure to us all.  Whose ‘Ave Maria’ was it, Miss Innes?”