As they stood calculating the strength of the lock and hinges the door-bell suddenly began to jingle.

“He wouldn’t ring the bell; he would come down the chimney,” said Miss Dingle.

“But who can it be?” said the portress, “and at this hour.”

“This will save you.”  Miss Dingle thrust a rosary into the nun’s hand and fled down the passage.  “Be sure to throw it over his neck.”

The nun tried to collect her scattered thoughts and her courage.  Again the bell jingled; this time the peal seemed crazier than the first, and, rousing herself into action, she asked through the grating who it might be.

“It is I, Sister Evelyn; open the door quickly, Sister Agnes.”

The nun held the door open, thanking God it was not the devil, and Evelyn dragged her trunk through the door, letting it drop upon the mat abruptly.

“Tell dear Mother I want to speak to her—­say that I must see her—­be sure to say that, and I will wait for her in the parlour.”

“There is no light there; I will fetch one.”

“Never mind, don’t trouble; I don’t want a light.  But go to the Reverend Mother and tell her I must see her before any one else.”

“Of course, Sister Evelyn, of course.”  And the portress hurried away, feeling that things had happened in a life which was beyond her life, beyond its scope.  Perhaps Sister Evelyn had come to tell the Prioress the Pope himself was dead, or had gone mad; something certainly had happened into which it was no business of hers to inquire.  And this vague feeling sent her running down the passage and up the stairs, and returning breathless to Evelyn, whom she found in a chair nearly unconscious, for when she called to her Evelyn awoke as from sleep, asking where she was.

“Sister Evelyn, why do you ask?  You are in Wimbledon Convent, with Sister Agnes; what is the matter?”

“Matter?  Nothing and everything.”  She seemed to recover herself a little.  “I had forgotten, Sister Agnes, I had forgotten.  But the Prioress, where is she?”

“In her room, and she will see you.  But you asked me to go to the Prioress saying she must see you—­have you forgotten, Sister Evelyn?  You know the way to her room?”

Evelyn did not answer; and feeling perhaps that she might lose her way in the convent, Sister Agnes said she would conduct her to the Prioress, and opened the door for her, saying, “Reverend Mother, Sister Evelyn.”

There was a large fire burning in the room, and Evelyn was conscious of the warmth, of bodily comfort, and was glad to sit down.

“You are very cold, my child, you are very cold.  Don’t trouble to speak, take your time and get warm first.”  And Evelyn sat looking into the fire for a long time.  At last she said: 

“It is warm here, Mother, I am so glad to be here.  But perhaps you will turn me away and won’t have me.  I know you won’t, I know you won’t, so why did I come all this long way?”