Carmen looked calmly into the serious eyes of the speaker, where she read no small degree of secret dissatisfaction.

“Yes, Sister Agatha, I will come.”

* * * * * *

No apartment could be more simply furnished than that of Sister Agatha.  It seemed as if she wished to excel in her avoidance of anything like unnecessary ornament or comfort.  Three chairs, a table, an old-fashioned sofa, a writing-desk, and a chest of drawers formed the scanty furniture.  The walls were whitewashed and bare, while at the windows were hung plain white curtains.  Above the desk was placed the solitary ornament of the room, the watchword for the day.  These “watchwords” are texts of Scripture printed on cards, one for each day in the year, and distributed to every member of the settlement, so that all may meditate upon it, and guide their daily lives by its precepts.

Sister Agatha sat at one of the windows; and with her, his chair drawn back into the shadow, out of the bright afternoon sunshine, sat Brother Jonathan Fricke, talking in his calmest and most deliberate manner, “It seems to me, dear Sister, that the healthy give you more anxiety than the sick.”

“Because they are the more difficult to help than others; and although your visit is principally to the sick, I should like to have your advice regarding the case of one in my charge, and whose father was your dearest friend.”

“You are anxious about Carmen’s worldly-mindedness; but ought you not to be indulgent, dear Sister, and remember that the child’s early associations are still holding sway in her heart, and make great excuse for her?  Brother Mauer, you remember, went away from the mission to his plantation, where, although he did not sever himself from our communion, there was not much to remind him of his religious obligations.  His last wife, a hot-blooded Creole, could not be considered much help as regards keeping the faith.  She loved best to swing herself into the saddle and gallop away over the plains.  She would sing her glowing Spanish songs to the accompaniment of the mandolin; or else she would dance like a fairy, her foot scarce seeming to touch the floor as she floated along, to the sound of the tambourine played by her old negro duenna.  She was too beautiful for him to restrain, in dancing, riding, or anything.  Too beautiful!” he repeated, becoming more and more enthusiastic.  “I have seen her often, when summoned to the plantation on professional duty as a physician; and there was little Carmen, always with her mother, and following her in everything.  She learned to dance and sing in true Spanish style, and she seemed to feel all the beauty and fascination of it.”

Suddenly he paused, as if becoming conscious of his unwonted animation under the wondering gaze of Sister Agatha’s grave eyes.  Heaving a deep sigh, he had again recourse to his old trick of brushing an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve, and then continued in the orthodox, placid manner: