My head was down, and I did not see if the Reverend Mother bowed again.  But the two gentlemen, apparently satisfied with her silence, began to talk of the best date for my removal, and just when I was quivering with fear that without a word of protest I was to be taken away, the Reverend Mother said: 

“Monsignor!”

“Reverend Mother!”

“You are aware that this child”—­here she patted my trembling hand—­“has been with me for ten years?”

“I am given to understand so.”

“And that during that time she has only once been home?”

“I was not aware—­but no doubt it is as you say.”

“In short, that during the greater part of her life she has been left to my undivided care?”

“You have been very good to her, very, and I’m sure her family are extremely grateful.”

“In that case, Monsignor, doesn’t it seem to you that I am entitled to know why she is being so suddenly taken away from me, and what is the change in life which Mr. O’Neill referred to in his letter?”

The smile which had been playing upon the Bishop’s face was smitten away from it by that question, and he looked anxiously across at my father.

“Tell her,” said my father, and then, while my heart thumped in my bosom and the Reverend Mother stroked my hand to compose me, the Bishop gave a brief explanation.

The time had not come when it would be prudent to be more definite, but he might say that Mr. O’Neill was trying to arrange a happy and enviable future for his daughter, and therefore he wished her to return home to prepare for it.

“Does that mean marriage?” said the Reverend Mother.

“It may be so.  I am not quite prepared to . . .”

“And that a husband has already been found for her?”

“That too perhaps.  I will not say . . .”

“Monsignor,” said the Reverend Mother, sitting up with dignity “is that fair?”

“Fair?”

“Is it fair that after ten years in which her father has done nothing for her, he should determine what her life is to be, without regard to her wish and will?”

I raised my eyes and saw that the Bishop looked aghast.

“Reverend Mother, you surprise me,” he said.  “Since when has a father ceased to be the natural guardian of his child?  Has he not been so since the beginning of the world?  Doesn’t the Church itself build its laws on that foundation?”

“Does it?” said the Reverend Mother shortly.  And then (I could feel her hand trembling as she spoke):  “Some of its servants do, I know.  But when did the Church say that anybody—­no matter who—­a father or anybody else—­should take the soul of another, and control it and govern it, and put it in prison? . . .”

“My good lady,” said the Bishop, “would you call it putting the girl in prison to marry her into an illustrious family, to give her an historic name, to surround her with the dignity and distinction . . .”