“We call this St. Peter’s path,” Mother Philippa said placidly, “and for his feast the novices put up his statue in the summer-house and decorate it with flowers.  They always come here for their mid-day recreation.”

“Your garden is quite lovely, Mother Philippa; I remember it all so well.”

They wandered on, past the apple and plum trees laden with fruit—­they made a pretty orchard in one corner; and while the nun passed here and there gathering flowers, Evelyn stood gazing, recalling all her girlish impressions.  Almost every turn in the walks recalled some innocent aspiration, some girlish feeling of love and reverence.  In every nook there was a statue of the Virgin, or a cross whereby the thoughts of the passer-by might be recalled to the essential object of her life.  She remembered how she had stopped one morning before the crucifix which stood on the top of some rocks at the end of the garden.  She had stopped as in a dream, and for a long while had stood looking at the face of the dying Redeemer, praying to his Father for pardon for them that persecuted him.  She had felt as if crazed with love, and had walked up the pathway feeling that the one thing of worth in the world was to live for him who had died for her.  But she had betrayed him.  She had chosen Owen!

Mother Philippa added another flower to the bouquet.  She looked at it and, regarding it as finished, she presented it to Evelyn.

“I hope I did not say anything that caused you pain in the parlour.  If I did you must know that I did not mean it.  I I hope your father is quite well.”

“Yes, he’s quite well.  You did not offend me, Mother Philippa,” she said, raising her eyes, and in that moment the two women felt they understood each other in some mute and far-off way.

“The day you left us was Easter Sunday.  It was a beautiful morning, and you walked round the rose garden with an old lady; she asked you to sing, and you sung her two little songs.”

“Yes, I remember; her hair was quite white, and she walked with a stick.”

“I am glad you remember; I feared that you had forgotten, as you were so long coming back.  I often prayed for you that you might come and see us.  I always felt that you would come back, and when one feels like that, it generally happens.”

Evelyn raised her eyes, drawing delight from the nun’s happy and contented face.  She experienced an exquisite idea, a holy intimacy of feeling; there was a breathless exaltation in the heavens and on the earth, and the wild cry of a startled bird darting through the shrubberies sounded like a challenge or defiance.  The sunset grew narrower in the slate-coloured sky, and the long plain of the common showed under two bars of belated purple.  The priests and the Reverend Mother went up the steps and were about to enter the convent.  Evelyn and Mother Philippa lingered by a distant corner of the garden marked by nine tall crosses.