Agnes followed, with her heart, she thought, standing still. But it would be a relief to be scolded, to be delivered from the demon of self-reproach in her own bosom. Sister Mary Jane seated herself at a table covered with school-books and account-books, in the little bare room, laid with matting, which was all the House afforded for the comfort of its rulers. She pointed to a low seat which all the elder girls knew well, which was the stool of repentance for the community. ‘My dear,’ said Sister Mary Jane, ‘did you know that gentleman in the world? Tell me truly, Agnes. You are only an associate: you are not under our rule, and there is no harm in speaking to an acquaintance. But so long as anyone wears our dress there must be a certain amount of care. Did you know him, my dear, tell me, in the world?’ Agnes could not meet these serious eyes. Her head drooped upon her breast. She began to cry. ‘I do not think it was my fault. Oh, I have been wrong, but I did not mean it. It was not my fault.’ ‘That is not an answer, my dear,’ said Sister Mary Jane. And then the whole story came rushing forth with sobs and excuses and self-accusations all in one. ‘It is the badness in my heart. I want to be above the world, but I cannot. Things come into my mind that I don’t want to think. I would rather, far rather, be devoted to my work, and think of nothing else, like you, Sister Mary Jane. And then I get tempted to talk, to give my opinion. I was always fond of conversation. Tell me what to do to keep my course straight, to be like you. Oh, if I could keep steady and think only of one thing! It is my thoughts that run off in every direction: it is not this gentleman. Oh, what can one do when one’s heart is so wrong!’ Sister Mary Jane listened with a smile. Oswald’s confidence in her beautiful eyes was perhaps not misplaced. And probably she was conscious now and then of thinking of something else as much as her penitent. She said, ‘My dear, I don’t think you have a vocation. I never thought it. A girl may be a very good girl and not have a vocation. So you need not be very unhappy if your thoughts wander; all of us have not the same gifts. But, Agnes, even if you were in the world, instead of being in this house, which should make you more careful, you would not let a gentleman talk to you whom you did not know. You must not do it again.’ ‘It was not meant badly,’ said Agnes, veering to self-defence. ‘He wanted to know how little Emmy was. It was the gentleman who carried her to the hospital. It was kindness; it was not meant for----’ ‘Yes, I saw who it was. And I can understand how it came about. But it is so easy to let an acquaintance spring up, and so difficult to end it when it has taken root. Perhaps, my dear, you had better not go to little Emmy again.’