“You may have seen this lady, or you may have heard of her,” she said.

“I would like to see her,” Unorna answered thoughtfully.

She was thinking of all the possibilities in the case.  She remembered the clearness and precision of the Wanderer’s first impression, when he first told her how he had seen Beatrice in the Teyn Kirche, and she reflected that the name was a very uncommon one.  The Beatrice of his story too had a father and no other relation, and was supposed to be travelling with him.  By the uncertain light in the corridor Unorna had not been able to distinguish the lady’s features, but the impression she had received had been that she was dark, as Beatrice was.  There was no reason in the nature of things why this should not be the woman whom the Wanderer loved.  It was natural enough that, being left alone in a strange city at such a moment, she should have sought refuge in a convent, and this being admitted it followed that she would naturally have been advised to retire to the one in which Unorna found herself, it being the one in which ladies were most frequently received as guests.  Unorna could hardly trust herself to speak.  She was conscious that Sister Paul was watching her, and she turned her face from the lamp.

“There can be no difficulty about your seeing her, or talking with her, if you wish it,” said the nun.  “She told me that she would be at Compline at nine o’clock.  If you will be there yourself you can see her come in, and watch her when she goes out.  Do you think you have ever seen her?”

“No,” answered Unorna in an odd tone.  “I am sure that I have not.”

Sister Paul concluded from Unorna’s manner that she must have reason to believe that the guest was identical with some one of whom she had heard very often.  Her manner was abstracted and she seemed ill at ease.  But that might be the result of fatigue.

“Are you not hungry?” asked the nun.  “You have had nothing since you came, I am sure.”

“No—­yes—­it is true,” answered Unorna.  “I had forgotten.  It would be very kind of you to send me something.”

Sister Paul rose with alacrity, to Unorna’s great relief.

“I will see to it,” she said, holding out her hand.  “We shall meet in the morning.  Good-night.”

“Good-night, dear Sister Paul.  Will you say a prayer for me?” She added the question suddenly, by an impulse of which she was hardly conscious.

“Indeed I will—­with all my heart, my dear child,” answered the nun looking earnestly into her face.  “You are not happy in your life,” she added, with a slow, sad movement of her head.

“No—­I am not happy.  But I will be.”

“I fear not,” said Sister Paul, almost under her breath, as she went out softly.