‘Thank you, Eliza. You always understand.’
’Not always. I failed to understand when you wanted to set up a hermitage on Castle Island.’
’Yes, you did; you have better sense than I. Yet I feel we are more alike than the others. You have counted for a great deal in my life, Eliza. Do you remember saying that you intended to be Reverend Mother? And now you are Reverend Mother.’
’I don’t think I said “I intended.” But I felt that if I became a nun, one day or another I should be Reverend Mother; one knows most often than not what is going to happen—one’s own fate, I mean.’
‘I wonder if Mary knows?’
‘If she does, I wish she’d tell us.’
’We’ll have time to walk round the garden once more. You have no idea what a pleasure it is for me to see you—to talk with you like this.’
And, talking of Mary, they walked slowly, forgetful of everything but each other.
A bell rang.
‘I must be going; it will be late before I get home.’
’Which way are you going? Round by Kilronan or across the Bridge of Keel?’
’I came by Kilronan. I think I’ll take the other way. There will be a moon to-night.’
Brother and sister entered the convent.
‘You’ll enjoy the drive?’
‘Yes.’ And he fell to thinking of the drive home by the southern road, the mountains unfolding their many aspects in the gray moonlight, and melting away in misty perspectives.
From Miss Nora Glynn to Father Oliver Gogarty.
’4, WILSON STREET, LONDON,
’June 8, 19—,
’I did not answer your first letter because the letters that came into my mind to write, however they might begin, soon turned to bitterness, and I felt that writing bitter letters would not help me to forget the past. But your second letter with its proposal that I should return to Ireland to teach music in a convent school forces me to break silence, and it makes me regret that I gave Father O’Grady permission to write to you; he asked me so often, and his kindness is so winning, that I could not refuse him anything. He said you would certainly have begun to see that you had done me a wrong, and I often answered that I saw no reason why I should trouble to soothe your conscience. I do not wish to return to Ireland; I am, as Father O’Grady told you, earning my own living, my work interests me, and very soon I shall have forgotten Ireland. That is the best thing that can happen, that I should forget Ireland, and that you should forget the wrong you did me. Put the whole thing, and me, out of your mind; and now, good-bye, Father Gogarty.