She had had her meals in the parlour with two other ladies who had come to the convent for the retreat.  They were both elderly women, and Evelyn fancied that they belonged to the grandest society.  She could tell that by their voices.  The one she liked best had quite white hair, and her expression was almost that of a nun.  She was tall, very stout, and walked with a stick.  On Easter Sunday this old lady had asked her if she would care to come into the garden with her.  It was such a beautiful morning, she said, that it would do both of them good.  The old lady walked very slowly with her stick.  But though Evelyn thought that she must be at least a countess, she did not think she was very rich—­she had probably lost her money.  The black dress she wore was thin and almost threadbare, and it was a little too long for her; she held it up in her left hand as she walked—­a most beautiful hand for an old woman.  Both these ladies had been very kind to her; she had often walked with them in the garden—­a fine old garden.  There were tall, shady trees; these were sprinkled with the first tiny leaves; and the currant and raspberry bushes were all out.  And there was a fishpond swarming with gold fish, and they were so tame that they took bread from the novices’ hands.

The conversation had begun about the convent, and after speaking of its good sisters, the old lady, whose hair was quite white, had asked Evelyn about herself.  Had she ever thought of being a nun?  Evelyn had answered that she had not.  She had never considered the question whether she had a vocation....  She had been brought up to believe that she was going on the stage to sing grand opera.

“It is hardly for me to advise you.  But I know how dangerous the life of an opera singer is.  I shall pray God that He may watch over you.  Promise me always to remember our holy religion.  It is the only thing we have that is worth having; all the rest passes.”

“Father, we were close by the edge of the fishpond, and all the greedy fish swarmed to the surface, thinking we had come to feed them.  She said, ’I cannot walk further without resting; come, my dear, let me sit down on that bench, and do you sing me a little song, very low, so that no one shall hear you but I.’  I sang her “John, come kiss me now,” and she said, “My dear, you have a beautiful voice, I pray that you make good use of it.”

But not in one day could all Evelyn’s convent experiences be related, and it was not until the end of the week that Evelyn told how Mother Philippa, at the end of a long talk in which she had spoken to Evelyn about the impulses which had led her to embrace a religious life (she had been twenty years in this convent), had taken her upstairs to the infirmary to see Sister Bonaventure, an American girl, only twenty-one, who was dying of consumption.  She lay on a couch in grey robes, her hands and face waxen white, and a smile of happy resignation on her lips and in her eyes.