With a long and very involuntary sigh, she began to sweep, and put in some order, her room. How forlorn her cornette looked upon her _prie-Dieu_! And, oh, how stern, and “old”! Would an impulse to bend it slightly but only so, _so_ slightly, to an angle to suit her face, be attended, later, by remorse? “Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper vergini, beato Michaeli Archangelo (et _tibi_ Pater), quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere,” she entreated, reposing her chin in meditation, upon the handle of her broom. The bluish shadow of a cypress-tree, on the empty wall, fascinated her as few pictures had. “Grant my soul Eyes,” she prayed, cheerfully completing her task. In the corridor, being a general holiday, all was yet quite still. A sound, as of gentle snoring, came indeed from behind more than one closed door, and the new _pensionnaire_ was preparing to beat a retreat, when she perceived, in the cloister, the dumpish form of Old Jane. Seated in the sun by the convent well, the Porteress was sharing a scrap of breakfast with the birds. “You’re soonish for Mass, love,” she broke out, her large archaic features surcharged with smiles. “It’s such a perfect morning, I felt I must come down.” “I’ve seen many a more promising sunrise before now, my dear, turn to storm and blast! An orange sky overhead, brings back to me the morning that I was received; ah, I shall never forget, as I was taking my Vows, a flash of forked lightning, and a clap of Thunder (Glory be to God!) followed by a water-spout (Mercy save us!) bursting all over my Frinch lace veil....” “What is your book, Old Jane?” “Something light, love, as it’s a holiday.” “_Pascal_....” “Though it’s mostly a _Fête_ day I’ve extra to do!” the Porteress averred, dropping her eyes to the great, glistening spits, upon the Cloister flags. It was her boast she could distinguish Monsignor Potts’ round splash from Father Geordie Picpus’ more dapper fine one, and again the Abbess’ from Mother Martinez de la Rosa’s--although these indeed shared a certain opaque sameness. “Of course it’s a day for private visits.” “Since the affair of Sister Dorothea and Brother Bernard Soult, private visits are no longer allowed,” the Porteress returned, reproving modestly, with the cord of her discipline, a pert little lizard, that seemed to be proposing to penetrate between the nude toes of her sandalled foot. But on such a radiant morning it was preposterous to hint at “Rules.” Beneath the clement sun a thousand cicadas were insouciantly chirping, while birds, skimming about without thoughts of money, floated lightly from tree to tree.