She had heard more than she liked of Sister Felicitas’ methods this morning, but this passed all bearing. “You must be mistaken,” she said, for the honor of the convent, but Andria saw her breathing quicken. “But I have been wrong. After this I will see more of the child. I promise you that much.” To think of Sister Felicitas having known all this time the parentage of Beryl Corselas, which had been the mystery of the quiet convent lives, was too much even for her charity. It seemed but yesterday since a woman, wild, despairing, with the hand of death already on her, had brought the child to the convent. She had been told that no baby of three years could be taken, and had sunk into the nearest chair as if her last hope were gone. Mother Benedicta had pitied her, seeing her so ill. (Afterward she had altered her mind about the illness; it might easily have been furious disappointment that had sapped her strange visitor’s strength.) She left the room to tell a lay sister to bring wine and food, but, though she was absent only a minute, when she returned the woman was gone. The window was open on the garden, and in the room sat a pale, yellow-eyed child, in exquisite clothing that was marked “Beryl Corselas.” That was all. Never from that day to this had they been able to find out anything more, and only that the convent charter provided for certain charity pupils could the rules have been stretched to keep the waif. Yet kept she was, and now a curious thrill made the superior tremble. Yet it was impossible. It had been six months before Sister Felicitas joined the community, and the woman who had flung the child on their charity had been pink-cheeked, golden-haired. Sister Felicitas was pale and dark. And still the Mother Superior---- She forced herself to speak. “I do not know what is to become of the child,” she said. “As you say, she is very strange. I never hear any good of her.” “There is good in her. But Sister Felicitas has a repulsion for the child. You can see it.” “I hope not,” said the good woman; but her own thoughts frightened her. “You had better write to her, Andria. I will see she gets your letters.” She had quite forgotten the reason that had brought her to Andria Heathcote’s alcove in this sudden suspicion that had sprung up. She looked unseeingly at the girl who had spoken out against all her secretive nature. Yet Andria’s was not an ordinary face, and worth the watching. Cleverness and self-reliance were written on the forehead, from which the hair was brushed back convent fashion; cleverness again in the wide eyebrows; perfect bravery was in the full-lipped mouth, and dogged patience in the clean chin; but the warm blue eyes had a veiled something in them that told of reluctance to speak out, of a temper that would hold out a right hand to an enemy and stab effectually with the left. Not from treachery, but because things were more easily done in that manner.