"I told the men about the father’s death—and—I said the girl had died later. Mam’selle, I took that course because one of the men, he said he had known the dead man, wanted the girl, and I could not trust the man; his eyes were bad. I feared for the child. ’Twas better that she stayed where she was, shielded, cared for. I had grown to be fond of her. I taught her carefully, she was a great help with the younger children. I hoped she would come into the Sisterhood, but perhaps it is best she should have a safe home." "Is that all? Did those men tell you nothing of the past?" Jo’s words came like hard, quick strokes. The waxen face of Sister Mary did not change expression. She had left life’s sordid problems so far behind that they were mere words to her. "Oh! they had their story," she said. "The dead man had shot his wife because he discovered that she had a lover. He shot her in the presence of the little girl and the lover. Mam’selle, I believe the man with the officer was the lover. He wanted the child for reasons of his own; that was why I said—she was dead. "That’s all, Mam’selle." Jo Morey felt a strange sympathy with the pale little Sister and a deep gratitude. "You’re a good woman!" she said to Sister Mary. "I did my best for the girl," the Sister went on, still holding to her crucifix, "she never recovered her memory for that, God be praised! But she had a bright mind and I trained that carefully. She knows much from books; all that I could get for her. She never took kindly to—religion, and that is why Sister Angela was thinking of finding a home for her; the girl was not happy here, but we did our best." "I am sure you did, Sister!" Jo looked grateful. "I understand. But those men, did they not mention the name of the man they sought?" Sister Mary drew her brows together. "The name? Yes, but it has escaped me. It was an English name if I recall rightly, something like—Long—no—yes—it was Longley or Longdon, something sounding like that." Never in her life had Jo fainted, but she feared she was going to do so now. The bare little room was effaced as though a huge, icy blackness engulfed it. In the darkness a clock on a shelf ticked madly, dashingly, like blow upon blow on iron. "Here is a glass of water, Mam’selle, you are ill." Sister Mary pressed the glass to Jo’s lips and she drank it to the last drop. "I have nursed this girl through a long sickness," she explained. "I am tired. But I will keep her. Tell Sister Angela to make arrangements and let me know." "Very well, Mam’selle. And the girl, Marie; she remembers, Sister Angela says. ’Tis a miracle. I shall miss her, but God has been kind to her." "She will remember only what I tell her, from now on!" Jo set her teeth over her tingling tongue. "And now, I must go."