I have the chance to speak to Margaret now. Of course a Mother can call any Sister to her cell if needful; and no one may ask why except another Mother. I must be careful not to seem to prefer Margaret above the rest, and all the more because she is my own sister. But last night I really had some directions to give her, and I summoned her to my cell. When I had told her what I wanted, I was about to dismiss her with "_Pax tibi_!" as usual, but Margaret's talking eyes told me she had something to say. I said,--"Well! what is it, Margaret?" "May I speak to my sister Annora for a moment, and not to the Mother?" she asked, with a look half amused and half sad. "Thou mayest always do that, dear heart," said I. (I hope it was not wicked.) "Then--Annora, for whom is the Lady Joan looking?" "Looking! I understand thee not, Margaret." "I think it is either thou or I," she replied. "Sister Anne told me that she asked her if there were not some Sisters of the Despenser family here, and wished to have them pointed out to her: and she said to Sister Anne, `She whom I seek was professed as a very little child.' That must be either thou or I, Annora. What can she want with us?" "Verily, Margaret, I cannot tell." "I wondered if she might be a niece of ours." "She may," said I. "I never thought of that. There is something about her eyes that reminds me of some one, but who it is I know not." "Thou couldst ask her," suggested Margaret. "I scarcely like to do that," said I. "But I will think about it, Margaret." I was wicked enough to kiss her, when I let her go. This morning Sister Ada told me that the Lady Joan had asked leave to learn illuminating, so she would spend her mornings henceforth in the illumination chamber. That will bring her with Margaret, who is much there. Perchance she may tell her something. It would be strange to see a niece or cousin of one's very own! I marvel if she be akin to us. Somehow, since I had that night watch with Margaret, my heart does not feel exactly the dry, dead thing it used to do in times past. I fancy I could love a kinswoman, if I had one. Sister Gaillarde said such a strange thing to me to-day. I was remarking that the talk in the recreation-room was so often vapid and foolish--all about such little matters: we never seemed to take an interest in any great or serious subject. "Sister Annora," said she, with one of her grim smiles, "I always looked to see you turn out a reformer." "Me!" cried I. "You," said she. "But a reformer is a great, grand man, with a hard head, and a keen wit, and a ready tongue!" said I. "Why should it not be a woman with a soft heart?" quoth Sister Gaillarde. "_Ha, jolife_!" cried I. "Sister Gaillarde, you may be cut out for a reformer, but I am sure I am not." I looked up as I spoke, and saw the Lady Joan's dark grey eyes upon me. "What is to be reformed. Mother?" said she.