“I think breaking rules and sorrow at Andria’s going has made some one a little hysterical this morning! Is that it, Beryl? Come to me, my child;” and she put an arm round the sinner, who stood petrified, as if at the sight of a saint from heaven. Mother Benedicta’s cool fingers felt the hot throbbing of the child’s lax hands, and her face grew sterner. “You are sorry for your rudeness to the good sister, is it not so, Beryl? Yes!” at the dumb nod that was a lie of despair. “I will see to the child, then, sister. I know you are busy. Sister Ignatia is waiting for you. She needs your help.” Sister Felicitas’ face grew white. “Yes, reverend mother,” she returned quietly, but her face was not quiet as she left the alcove. To have Andria Heathcote incite that hideous child to mutiny was bad enough, but to have Mother Benedicta set aside her authority was worse. And there had been that in the face of the reverend mother that told Sister Felicitas that even rancorous hatred must go softly. “Reverend mother, my rabbits!” gasped the culprit, as the sister’s steps died away. “You won’t let her take them?” “It was not meant, Beryl! The good sister thought to touch your heart; that is a hard little heart, is it not?” she said, smiling. “But run away now and wash your face. Then you can go to my room and wait there quietly till Andria and I come to you. I will ask Sister Felicitas to let her onions wait for to-day.” But there was no smile on her face as the child slipped away, radiant with gratitude. “It was a pity you had her here, Andria!” she said. “But it is the holidays, after all--only it provokes Sister Felicitas, who is always so conscientious.” Andria Heathcote was brave enough, but, as a child had been quick to see, she was too apt to let things go, to put a good face on ugly matters. Yet now that curious politeness of hers left her. “You heard, reverend mother,” she said quickly. “That goes on all day long. The child is growing sullen and strange.” “Do you mean that, Andria?” Mother Benedicta was not apt to talk so freely, but Andria was going away. “Yes, reverend mother! I knew you did not know. And it is true”--flushing at her own boldness--“that the sister dislikes Beryl.” Mother Benedicta sighed. “The child is difficult, they tell me, and incorrigibly idle;” but she said it chiefly to hear the answer. “She can speak Spanish, and she works hard at that, though no one knows but Sister De Sales. School is bad for her; the girls bully her. Could you not send her home sometimes, dear mother?” “She has no home; did you not know? She has been here since she was a baby. We do not even know who she is.” For once the Mother Superior had forgotten herself. “Sister Felicitas knows,” said Andria quietly. “What! Why do you say that?” “Because”--once launched, Andria was floating well--“I heard her tell the child that she came by her mad temper honestly--was her mother over again.” Mother Benedicta stood dumb.