And sometimes she would tell us the stories of the novels which she bribed one of the washing-women to smuggle into the convent—­stories of ladies and their lovers, and of intoxicating dreams of kissing and fondling, at which the bigger girls, with far-off suggestions of sexual mysteries still unexplored, would laugh and shudder, and then Alma would say: 

“But hush, girls!  Margaret Mary will be shocked.”

Occasionally these conferences would be interrupted by Mildred’s voice from the other end of the dormitory, where she would raise her head from her pillow and say: 

“Alma Lier, you ought to be ashamed of yourself—­keeping that child up when she ought to be asleep, instead of listening to your wicked stories.”

“Helloa, Mother Mildred, is that you?” Alma would answer, and then the girls would laugh, and Mildred was supposed to be covered with confusion.

One night Sister Angela’s footsteps were heard on the stairs, and then the girls flew back to their beds, where, with the furtive instinct of their age and sex, they pretended to be sleeping soundly when the Sister entered the room.  But the Sister was not deceived, and walking up the aisle between the beds she said in an angry tone: 

“Alma Lier, if this ever occurs again I’ll step down to the Reverend Mother and tell her all about you.”

Little as I was, I saw that between Alma and Sister Angela there was a secret feud, which must soon break into open rupture, but for my own part I was entirely happy, being still proud of Alma’s protection and only feeling any misgivings when Mildred’s melancholy eyes were looking at me.

Thus week followed week until we were close upon Christmas, and the girls, who were to be permitted to go home before the Feast, began to count the days to the holidays.  I counted them too, and when anybody talked of her brother I thought of Martin Conrad, though his faithful little figure was fading away from me, and when anybody spoke of her parents I remembered my mother, for whom my affection never failed.

But, within a week from the time for breaking up, the Reverend Mother sent for me, and with a sinking heart I went to her room, knowing well what she was going to say.

“You are not to go home for the holidays this time, my child.  You are to remain here, and Sister Angela is to stay to take care of you.”

She had a letter from Father Dan, telling her that my mother was still unwell, and for this and other reasons it was considered best that I should not return at Christmas.

Father Dan had written a letter to me also, beginning, “My dear daughter in Jesus” and ending “Yours in Xt,” saying it was not his fault that he could not fulfil his promise, but my father was much from home now-a-days and Aunt Bridget was more difficult than ever, so perhaps I should be happier at the Convent.

It was a bitter blow, though the bitterest part of it lay in the fear that the girls would think I was of so little importance to my people that they did not care to see me.