Meanwhile Mrs. Denton had apparently made her niece understand that there was to be no more dallying with Miss Fountain. Whenever she and Laura met, Ellen lowered her head and ran. Laura found that the girl was not allowed to wait upon her personally any more. Meanwhile the housekeeper herself passed Miss Fountain with a manner and a silence which were in themselves an insult. And two days after Helbeck's departure, Laura was crossing the hall towards tea-time, when she saw Mrs. Denton admitting one of the Sisters from the orphanage. It was the Reverend Mother herself, the portly shrewd-faced woman who had wished Mr. Helbeck a good wife. Laura passed her, and the nun saluted her coldly. "Dear me!--you shall have Augustina to yourself, my good friend," thought Miss Fountain. "Don't be afraid." And she turned into the garden. An hour later she came back. As she opened the door in the old wall she saw the Sister on the steps, talking with Mrs. Denton. At sight of her they parted. The nun drew her long black cloak about her, ran down the steps, and hurried away. And indoors, Laura could not imagine what had happened to her stepmother. Augustina was clearly excited, yet she would say nothing. Her restlessness was incessant, and at intervals there were furtive tears. Once or twice she looked at Laura with the most tragic eyes, but as soon as Laura approached her she would hastily bury herself in her newspaper, or begin counting the stitches of her knitting. At last, after luncheon, Mrs. Fountain suddenly threw down her work with a sigh that shook her small person from top to toe. "I wish I knew what was wrong with you," said Laura, coming up behind her, and dropping a pair of soft hands on her shoulders. "Shall I get you your new tonic?" "No!" said Augustina pettishly; then, with a rush of words that she could not repress: "Laura, you must--you positively must give up that young man." Laura came round and seated herself on the fender stool in front of her stepmother. "Oh! so that's it. Has anybody else been gossiping?" "I do wish you wouldn't--you wouldn't take things so coolly!" cried Augustina. "I tell you, the least trifle is enough to do a young girl of your age harm. Your father would have been so annoyed." "I don't think so," said Laura quietly. "But who is it now? The Reverend Mother?" Augustina hesitated. She had been recommended to keep things to herself. But she had no will to set against Laura's, and she was, in fact, bursting with suppressed remonstrance. "It doesn't matter, my dear. One never knows where a story of that kind will go to. That's just what girls don't remember." "Who told a story, and what? I didn't see the Reverend Mother at the dance." "Laura! But you never thought, my dear--you never knew--that there was a cousin of Father Bowles' there--the man who keeps that little Catholic shop in Market Street. That's what comes, you see, of going to parties with people beneath you."