The child lifted her face from the girl’s shoulder. It was a curious face, with something almost vacant about it, yet what the lack was no one could quite say. She had extraordinary eyes, strangely and uncannily beautiful, so light a brown as to be almost yellow, tawny golden under the heavy eyelashes, that were black as ink. The warm whiteness of her cheeks was blurred with crying, paled with real despair, and the startling crimson of the childish lips had been hard bitten to check the sobs that might be heard. She pushed away the long cloud of straight hair that was not black nor brown, but dusky, a cloud of darkness with no color to be named, from her face, and spoke with sullen, unchildlike contempt. “You won’t write!” Her eyes were like burned-out coals. “You’ll mean to, but you won’t. You’re always trying to save other people’s feelings outside, but inside you never care. You’ll forget!” “I’ll try not to,” said Andria, with a sudden pang. Was she really what Beryl said? Did her hatred of giving pain really make her more cruel in the end? She kissed the wet cheek. “If I do forget, if I am like that, will you promise me something? Remember that I don’t mean to forget, and that I don’t, really. Think to yourself it’s just my way, and that some day you’ll see me again. Will you try, Beryl?” “It’s no use my trying anything without you--in the house with Sister Felicitas!” “Keep out of her way, then! Why are you always getting into her black books?” “Because she hates me. I’m never myself with her.” “You are with Mother Benedicta!” “I might as well be comfortable with the statue in the chapel! I see about as much of her.” She clung suddenly to the arm that enwrapped her. “Oh, it’s you I want--you!” she gasped. “If I’m going to be good it will be for you. Who else do I like? Just you and animals--and I haven’t any of them except my rabbits. And I hate, hate, hate Sister Felicitas!” A shadow, tall, slight, and angular, fell on them. Andria looked up with a start, since convent tradition was still strong in her, and she was breaking rules openly. Sister Felicitas stood in the doorway, black against the sunlit passage. “You’ve no right to be here, Beryl Corselas,” her voice seemed to float out into the shaded whiteness of the alcove, calm and cool as frost. “Go away and do your weeding. Your garden is not a pretty sight.” Andria felt the quick shudder in the child’s body. “Please, sister,” she said, “let me stay. Andria is going away.” “I have nothing to do with that. But while I am in charge of the kitchen-garden you must do your share there. Go at once,” she said very softly, but the downcast eyes were angry. Andria Heathcote could not be reprimanded, and Sister Felicitas longed to do it; she was always making that hateful child rebel against lawful authority. But to-morrow she would be gone. “A few minutes more or less cannot matter to you. Go to your weeding,” she said scornfully.