old house in a quiet narrow street a good distance beyond the Great
Square. There, in a large drawing-room, panelled and bare, with heavy
cornices and a lofty ceiling, in a little oasis of light made by two
candles in a desert of dusk, I sat at a little table to worry and ink
myself all over till the task of my preparation was done. The table of
my toil faced a tall white door, which was kept closed; now and then it
would come ajar and a nun in a white coif would squeeze herself through
the crack, glide across the room, and disappear. There were two of these
noiseless nursing nuns. Their voices were seldom heard. For, indeed,
what could they have had to say? When they did speak to me it was with
their lips hardly moving, in a claustral, clear whisper. Our domestic
matters were ordered by the elderly housekeeper of our neighbour on the
second floor, a Canon of the Cathedral, lent for the emergency. She,
too, spoke but seldom. She wore a black dress with a cross hanging by a
chain on her ample bosom. And though when she spoke she moved her lips
more than the nuns, she never let her voice rise above a peacefully
murmuring note. The air around me was all piety, resignation, and
silence.

I don't know what would have become of me if I had not been a reading
boy. My prep. finished I would have had nothing to do but sit and watch
the awful stillness of the sick room flow out through the closed door and
coldly enfold my scared heart. I suppose that in a futile childish way I
would have gone crazy. But I was a reading boy. There were many books
about, lying on consoles, on tables, and even on the floor, for we had
not had time to settle down. I read! What did I not read! Sometimes
the elder nun, gliding up and casting a mistrustful look on the open
pages, would lay her hand lightly on my head and suggest in a doubtful
whisper, "Perhaps it is not very good for you to read these books." I
would raise my eyes to her face mutely, and with a vague gesture of