“On what is she going to meditate?” Evelyn wondered; and from time to time her eyes went towards the nun, who sat crouched on her haunches, now and again beating her ears with both hands—­a little trick of hers to scatter casual thoughts, for even sacred things sometimes suggested thoughts of evil to Sister Cecilia, and her plan to reduce her thoughts to order was to slap her ears.  Evelyn watched her, wondering what her thoughts might be.  Whatever they were, they led poor Cecilia into disgrace, for that evening she forgot to fill the lamp which burnt always before the tabernacle, it being the rule that the Easter light struck on Holy Saturday should be preserved through the year, each new wick being lighted upon the dying one.  And Sister Cecilia’s carelessness had broken the continuity.  She was severely reprimanded, ate her meals that day kneeling on the refectory floor, and for many a day the shameful occurrence was remembered.  And her place was taken by Veronica, who, delighted at her promotion, wore a quaint air of importance, hurrying away with a bundle of keys hanging from her belt by a long chain, amusing Evelyn, who was now under Veronica’s orders.

“Yes, it is rather strange, isn’t it, Sister?  But I can’t help it.  Of course you ought to be in my place, and I can’t think why dear Mother has arranged it like this.”

Nuns employed in the sacristy might talk, and in a few days Veronica’s nature revealed itself in many little questions.

“It is strange you should wish to be a nun.”

“But why is it strange, Veronica?”

“For you are not like any of us, nor has the convent been the same since you came.”

“Are you sorry that I wish to be a nun?”

“Sorry, Sister Teresa?  No, indeed.  God has chosen you from the beginning as the means He would employ to save us; only I can’t see you as a nun, always satisfied with the life here.”

“Every one doesn’t know from childhood what she is going to do.  But you always knew your vocation, Veronica.”

“I cannot imagine myself anything but a nun, and yet I am not always satisfied.  Sometimes I am filled with longings for something which I cannot live without, yet I do not know what I want.  It is an extraordinary feeling.  Do you know what I mean, Sister?”

“Yes, dear, I think I do.”

“It makes me feel quite faint, and it seizes me so suddenly.  I have wanted to tell you for a long time, only I have not liked to.  There are days when it makes me so restless that I cannot say my prayers, so I know the feeling must be wrong.  Something in the quality of your voice stirs this feeling in me; your trill brings on this feeling worse than anything.  You don’t know what I mean?”

“Perhaps I do.  But why do you ask?”

“Because your singing seems to affect no one as it does me....  I thought it might affect you in the same way—­what is it?”

“I wouldn’t worry, Veronica, you will get over it; it will pass.”