Maria Dolores looked interested.

“Yes,” she said, slowly, thoughtfully, and meditated for an interval.  By-and-by, “You know,” she recommenced, “she’s a sort of little person about whom one can’t help feeling rather frightened.”  And her eyes looked to his for sympathetic understanding.

But his were interrogative.  “No?  Why should one feel frightened about her?”

“Oh,” said Maria Dolores, with a movement, “it isn’t exactly easy to tell why.  One’s fears are vague.  But—­well, for one thing, she thinks so much about Death.  Death and what comes after,—­they interest her so much.  It doesn’t seem natural, it makes one uneasy.  And then she’s so delicate-looking.  Sometimes she’s almost transparent.  In every way she is too serious.  She uses her mind too much, and her body too little.  She ought to have more of the gaiety of childhood, she ought to have other children to romp with.  She’s too much like a disembodied spirit.  It all alarms one.”

John, as she spoke, frowned, pondering.  When she had done, his frown cleared, he shook his head.

“I don’t think it need,” he said.  “Her delicacy, her frailness, have never struck me as indicating weakness,—­they seem simply the proper physical accompaniments of her crystalline little soul,—­she’s made of a fine and delicate clay.  She thinks about Death, it is true, but not in a morbid way,—­and that’s a part of her ecclesiastical tradition; and she thinks quite as much about life,—­she thinks about everything.  I agree with you, it’s a pity she has no other children.  But she isn’t by any means deficient in the instincts of childhood.  She can enjoy a chocolate cigar, for instance, as well as another; and as for marchpane, I have her own word that she adores it.”

Maria Dolores gave another light trill of laughter.

“Yes, I’m aware of her passion for marchpane.  She confided it to me this morning.  And as, in reply to her questions, I admitted that I rather liked it myself, she very generously offered to bring me some this afternoon,—­which, to be sure, an hour ago, she did.”

She laughed again, and John laughed too.

“All the same” she insisted, “I can’t help that feeling of uneasiness about her.  Sometimes, when I look at her, I can almost see her wings.  What will be her future, if she grows up?  One would rather not think of her as married to some poor Italian, and having to give herself to the prosaic sort of existence that would mean.”

“The sordid sort of existence,” augmented John.  “No, one would decidedly rather not.  But she will never marry.  She will enter religion.  Her uncle has it all planned out.  He destines her for the Servites.”

“Oh?  The Servites—­the Mantellate?  I am glad of that,” exclaimed Maria Dolores.  “It is a most beautiful order.  They have an especial devotion to Our Lady of Sorrows.”

“Yes,” said John, and remembered it was for Our Lady of Sorrows that she who spoke was named.