Sister Paul shook her head sorrowfully, but said nothing. She knew no more than Beatrice of Unorna’s intention, but she believed in the existence of a Black Art, full of sacrilegious practices, and credited Unorna vaguely with the worst designs which she could think of, though in her goodness she was not able to imagine anything much worse than the saying of a _Pater Noster_ backwards in a consecrated place. But she preferred to say nothing, lest she should judge Unorna unjustly. After all, she did not know. What she had seen had seemed bad enough and strange enough, but apart from the fact that Beatrice had been found upon the altar, where she certainly had no business to be, and that Unorna had acted like a guilty woman, there was little to lay hold of in the way of fact. “My child,” she said at last, “until we know more of the truth, and have better advice than we can give each other, let us not speak of it to any one of the sisters. In the morning I will tell all I have seen in confession, and then I shall get advice. Perhaps you should do the same. I know nothing of what happened before you left your room. Perhaps you have something to reproach yourself with. It is not for me to ask. Think it over.” “I will tell you the whole truth,” Beatrice answered, resting her elbow upon the polished shelf and supporting her head in her hand, while she looked earnestly into Sister Paul’s faded eyes. “Think well, my daughter. I have no right to any confession from you. If there is anything----” “Sister Paul--you are a woman, and I must have a woman’s help. I have learned something to-night which will change my whole life. No--do not be afraid--I have done nothing wrong. At least, I hope not. While my father lived, I submitted. I hoped, but I gave no sign. I did not even write, as I once might have done. I have often wished that I had--was that wrong?” “But you have told me nothing, dear child. How can I answer you?” The nun was perplexed.