had longed for the time when she could leave the Convent, she
clung to it now with dread at the thought of the future. The
London lawyer had written that Mr. Craven was returning from Japan
to assume his guardianship, and she had traced his route with
growing fear as the days slipped by--the keeper's tread coming
closer and closer. She had masked the terror the thought of him
inspired, preserving an outward apathy that seemed to imply
complete indifference. And in the end he had come sooner than she
expected, for they thought he would go first to London. One
morning she had learned he was in Paris, that very afternoon she
would know her fate. The day had been interminable. During his
interview with the Mother Superior she had paced the room where
she was waiting as it seemed for hours, her nerves at breaking
point. When the Reverend Mother came back she could have
shrieked aloud and her desperate eyes failed to interpret the
expression on the Nun's face; she tried to speak, a husky whisper
that died away inarticulately. Faintly she heard the gentle words of
encouragement and with an effort of pride she walked quickly to
the door of the visitors' room. There she paused, irresolute, and
the low peaceful roll of the organ echoing from the distant chapel
seemed to mock her. So often it had comforted, giving courage to
go forward--today its very peacefulness jarred; nerve-racked she
was out of tune with the atmosphere of calm tranquillity about
her. She felt alien--that more than ever she stood alone. Then
pride flamed afresh. With head held high and lips compressed she
went in. As he turned from the window it was his great height and
broad shoulders that struck her first--men of his physique were
rare in France--and, in the thought of a moment, the well cut
conventional morning coat had seemed absurd, and mentally she had
clothed his long limbs in damascened steel. Then she had seen that