everything. She did not know all, even about Sisters.

Because, in all that she knew or remembered or wondered about, there
was nothing at all about that strange thing that all the little
children, but herself, knew so well about--''Own-dear-sisters.''

Another strange thing came into her mind, brought into her mind
partly by her ears, but mostly by her eyes: There were not in this
new world on the high mountain--perhaps there were not after all so
many anywhere as she had thought--there were not so many Sisters
like Sister Helen Vincula (for was not Sister Helen Vincula the only
Sister she had seen on the mountain?). There were not after all so
many Sisters like Sister Angela; and Sister Mary Felice, who watched
the little blue-checked-apron girls playing in the sand; and Sister
Ignatius, who cooked the cakes with the caraway seeds in them; and
Sister Theckla, who taught the little girls to Count and to Sing.

Why, the whole world, surely the up-on-the mountain-world, seemed
full of Only-Just-Ladies.

Not just a Lady here and there, coming to visit with hats on, to
talk a little to the Sisters, to look at the little girls with blue
checked aprons on. But here they were coming and going all the
time, moving about, and living in the cabins, walking everywhere
with or without hats on, standing on the gray cliffs, and looking
down--maybe into the heart of a worldwide violet there, off the edge
of the cliff, such as Bessie Bell saw or fancied she saw.

So many Ladies.