“Teresa!” Evelyn answered.  And her thoughts went to the great nun whose literature she had first read in the garden outside, when she walked there as a visitor.  It was under a certain tree, where she had often sat since with Mother Hilda and the novices, that she had first read the “Autobiography” and “The Way of Perfection.”  There were the saints’ poems, too; and, thinking of them, a pride awoke in her that for a time, at least, she should bear the saint’s name.  The Prioress was right, the saint’s name would fortify her against her enemy; and her noviceship would be something to look back upon, and the memory of it would protect her when she left the convent.

“I am glad that we shall have you, at all events, for some months more with us—­some months more for sure, perhaps always.  But take time to consider it.”

“Dear Mother, I am quite decided.”

“Think it over.  You can tell me your decision some time in the afternoon, or to-morrow.”

It was a few days after that the Prioress took Evelyn up to the novitiate, where the novices were making the dress that Evelyn was to wear when she received the white veil.

“You see, Teresa, we spare no expense or trouble on your dress,” said the Prioress.

“Oh, it is no trouble, dear Mother.”  And Sister Angela rose from her chair and turned the dress right side out and shook it, so that Evelyn might admire the handsome folds into which the silk fell.

“And see, here is the wreath,” said Sister Jerome, picking up a wreath of orange-blossoms from a chair.

“And what do you think of your veil, Sister Teresa?  Sister Rufina did this feather-stitch.  Hasn’t she done it beautifully?”

“And Sister Rufina is making your wedding-cake.  Mother Philippa has told her to put in as many raisins and currants as she pleases.  Yours will be the richest cake we have ever had in the convent.”  Sister Angela spoke very demurely, for she was thinking of the portion of the cake that would come to her, and there was a little gluttony in her voice as she spoke of the almond paste it would have upon it.

“It is indeed a pity,” said Sister Jerome, “that Sister Teresa’s clothing takes place so early in the year.”

“How so, Sister Jerome?” Evelyn asked incautiously.

“Because if it had been a little later, or if Monsignor had not been delayed in Rome—­I only thought,” she added, stopping short, “that you would like Monsignor to give you the white veil—­it would be nicer for you; or if the Bishop gave it,” she added, “or Father Ambrose.  I am sure Sister Veronica never would have been a nun at all if Father Ambrose had not professed her.  Father Daly is such a little frump.”

“That will do, children; I cannot really allow our chaplain to be spoken of in that manner.”  And Mother Hilda looked at Evelyn, thinking, “Well, the Prioress has had her way with her.”