He praised her work. He had never found anybody so clever at carrying out suggestions as Marietta; but to-day his commendation brought no pleasure into her face, and the artist was quick to notice her changed manner. "You are sad, Marietta?" "No," she answered hastily, turning to leave the studio. "Why no, when you mean yes?" he asked, following her. She did not reply, but the tears gathered in her eyes and fell upon her dress. "Tell me what grieves you. I helped you once, and may be able to do so again." She took the Reverend Mother's letter from her pocket and placed it in his hand. It contained a few lines, saying that they would expect their child back in a fortnight's time. "Then you are going to leave us after all?" "It is better so." "But it makes you sad the thought of going?" "Yes," she said, with downcast face. "The sisters would not wish you to take the veil if you or they doubted your vocation for such a surrender?" "I don't understand." "Your heart must be in this sacrament, your whole heart, you must have no longings after the world. Is it not so?" "Oh yes," she said, her voice trembling, tears in her eyes. "Have you any longings that might be a shadow on your nun's life, my child? Have you? Nay, don't be afraid to speak." "Oh, don't ask me," she said, repressing her sobs. "You do not think your life here involves a sin? You have enabled me to paint a heavenly image that might, so far as the pure spirit of it goes, decorate the fairest church. I do not say the work, Marietta, but the intention, the inspiration." She found this question too subtle for her comprehension, but there was something in the artist's tone and manner that thrilled her, something that was like the influence of the _Magnificat_ in the great choir of the cathedral. She turned her wondering eyes towards him, and he took her hands in his. "You have been happy here?" he asked, his voice trembling. "Yes, very." "Then why leave me? Put up with the gloom and fog for my sake, Marietta. Be the artist's little wife as well as his model." The sun came streaming into the studio as he bent over her fair hands and kissed them. "It is not all gloom and fog," she replied. "To-day the London sun is as bright and warm as it was in Italy when I was a child." It was not alone the London sun, it was the sunshine of the heart; and it lasted all through the remainder of Marietta's life. [Illustration] THE WINDFLOWER [Illustration: THE WINDFLOWER] "One·will·crown·thee·king Far·in·the·spiritual·city" Lord Tennyson I. Lady Mercy sat writing of love in the early hours of morning. She had been christened Mercy, but the people called her the "Windflower." She was born in a high March wind, which had once more wooed her sisters into life. They lay like a fall of snow in the adjacent forests. As the girl grew the title of the "Windflower" suited more and more her long fair hair and clear grey eyes.