“Do you think so?” said Edgar, whose present experience was not much in that way, whose givings up had hitherto cost him little, and who had begun to suspect that, notwithstanding all that had happened to him, and all that he had bestowed upon others, he had not even begun yet to find out what self-denial meant. “Not a doubt of it,” said Sister Susan. She was so sure of everything that it was a pleasure to see her nod her confident little head, and cross her hands. “She laughs about it now, and makes a great joke; though, after all, she says it was a cheat, and the third class was quite as good as the first--no originals in it, nor genuine poor people--only you.” “Did she know me?” The question burst from him in spite of himself, and it had a somewhat uncomfortable effect on Sister Susan. “Know you?” she said. “What--what--a curious question, Mr. Earnshaw! Now, how could she know you? You never saw her before.” “I suppose not,” said Edgar, doubtfully. “Why, you know you never did,” said Sister Susan, with her usual confident tone, and indeed Edgar felt that she must be right. “You took her for a Sister,” she added, with a merry laugh. “How should I know the difference?” asked piteously the young man. “Why, she had not this, nor this, nor this,” said the Sister, triumphantly touching one part of her dress after another. “She had on a simple black dress, and cloak, and veil--that was all. A good little girl,” she continued, “our orphans are all fond of her, and she is very nice to those young sisters of hers, who are much more taken out now-a-days than she is, and carry everything before them--especially since she went off so much, poor dear.” “Has she gone off?” Edgar asked, more and more interested, he could scarcely tell why. “Oh, dreadfully; lost her pretty colour, and her hair used to come out in handfuls; she has been obliged to have it cut off to save it. She is not like what she was, poor thing; but I hope,” added Sister Susan devoutly, “that thinking so much more seriously than she used to do, the change will be of great benefit to her soul.” “Poor Miss--! You have not told me her name,” said Edgar. “Haven’t I?” said Sister Susan. “Dear, dear, there is the bell for chapel, and I can’t stay with you any longer. There are a few benches near the door where strangers are allowed to go, if you wish to stay for evensong.”