“Remember, Miss Martin, that I was but a child at this time--at least, I was little more than fourteen--but in another year I was a woman, in all the consciousness of certain attractions, clever enough to know that I could read and detect the weak points in others, and weak enough to fancy that I could always take advantage of them. This incessant spirit of casuistry, this passion for investigating the temper of those about you, and making a study of their natures for purposes of your own, is the essence of a convent life; you have really little else to do, and your whole bent is to ascertain why Sister Agnes blushes, or why Beatrice fainted twice at the Angelus. The minute anatomy of emotions is a very dangerous topic. At this very moment I cannot free myself from the old habit; and as I see young Mr. Nelligan there sitting with his head in his hand, so deep in thought as not to notice us, I begin to examine why is it he is thus, and on what is he now brooding?” “And can you guess?” asked Mary, half eagerly. “I could be certain, if I were but to ask him a question or two.” “Pray do then, if only to convince me of your skill.” “But I must be alone, and that is scarcely possible,--scarcely becoming.” “Let us contrive some way,--think of something.” “It is too late now; he is about to leave the room,” said Kate, cautiously. “How pale he looks, and how anxious his eye has become! I thought at first there was some constraint at meeting _me_ here; he feared, perhaps--but no, that would be unworthy of him.” She ceased, for Nelligan had now drawn nigh to where they sat, and stood as if trying to collect himself to say something. “Do you sing, Mr. Nelligan?” asked Kate. “No; I am ignorant of music,” said he, half abstractedly. “But you like it?” asked Mary. “Yes, I believe I do,--that is, it calms and quiets me. If I could understand it, it would do more.” “Then why not understand it, since that is the way you phrase it?” asked Kate. “Everybody can be a musician to a certain degree of proficiency. There is no more ear required than you want to learn a language.” “Then you shall teach me,” cried Mary, eagerly. Kate took up her hand and pressed it to her lips for a reply. “Foreigners--men, I mean--are all so well aware of this that they cultivate music as a necessary part of education; few attain high eminence, but all know something of it. But somehow we have got to believe that cultivation in England must always tend to material profit. We learn this, that, and t' other, to be richer or greater or higher, but never to be more acceptable in society, more agreeable or pleasanter company.” “We have n't time,” said Nelligan, gravely. “For what have we not time? Do you mean we have no time to be happy?” cried Repton, suddenly stepping in amongst them. “Now, my dear young ladies, which of you will bid highest for the heart of an old lawyer--by a song?” “It must be Miss Henderson,” said Mary, smiling, “for I don't sing.”