claim to the child who had been sheltered in the safety of the
community that he had despised. The safety of the community--that
had not before occurred to him. For the first time he considered
it a refuge to those who there sought sanctuary and who were
safeguarded from such as--he. He winced, but did not spare
himself. The sin had been only his. The child who had died for
love of him had been as innocent of sin as the birds who loved and
mated among the pine trees in her Garden of Enchantment. She had
had no will but his. Arrogantly he had taken her and she had
submitted--was he not her lord? Before his shadow fell across her
path no blameless soul within these old convent walls had been
more pure and stainless than the soul of O Hara San. It was the
sins of such as he that drove women to this shelter that offered
refuge and consolation, to escape from such as he they voluntarily
immured themselves; surrendering the purpose of their being,
seeking in bodily denial the salvation of their souls.

The room had grown very dark. A sudden glare of light made Craven
realise that a question asked was still unanswered. He had not, in
his abstraction, been aware of any movement. Now he saw the Mother
Superior walking leisurely back from the electric switch by the
door, and guessed from her placid face that the interval had been
momentary and had passed unnoticed. Some answer was required now.
He pulled himself together.

"I am not married," his voice was strained, "and I have no mother.
But my aunt--Miss Craven--the sculptor--" he paused enquiringly
and she smiled reassurance.

"Miss Craven's beautiful work is known to me," she said with ready