It was Sister Angela’s suggestion that Mary should become the nurse for the children.

“How much does she know, Sister?”

“Nothing—­but what we have permitted her to know.  The girl, since knowing of the children, has astonished me by her interest in them.  Nothing before has so brought her out of her native reserve.  I never suspected it—­but the girl has maternal instincts that should not be starved.”

But Sister Angela was mistaken.  Mary knew more than she had been permitted to know.

A closed door to Mary meant seeking access through other channels.  Sister Constance had not screened the windows of the west chamber which opened on the roof of the porch and were next to the window of Mary’s small chamber.  She had forgotten to ward against the startling sound of a baby’s cry.  But Mary, the night that Becky had left her burden to the care of Sister Angela, had heard that cry and it reached to the hidden depth of the girl’s nature.  It chilled her, then set her blood racing hotly.  She got up and went to the window—­it was moonlight in The Gap and the night was full of a rising wind that rattled the vines and set the leaves swirling.

Covering herself with a dark shawl, she crept from her window and, clinging close to the house, reached the west chamber.

Inside, by the light of a candle, Sister Constance sat, hushing to sleep a little child!  The sight was burned upon Mary’s consciousness as if Fate pressed every detail there so it might not be forgotten.  Mary saw the small, puckered face.  It was individual and distinct.

She almost slipped from her place on the roof; her breath came so hard that she feared Sister Constance might hear, and she groped her way back.

All next day Mary worked silently but with such haste that Sister Janice took her sharply to task.

“’Tis the ungodly as leaves the dust under the mats, child,” she cautioned.

“Yes, Sister.”  Mary attacked the mats!

“And a burnt loaf cries for forgiveness.”

“Yes, Sister, but the burnt loaf I will myself eat to the last crust.”

“Indeed and you shall—­for the carelessness that you show.”

Somehow Mary lived through the day with her ears strained and a mighty fear in her heart.

It was nearing morning of the following day—­that darkest hour—­when the girl arose from her sleepless bed and stole forth again.

It was just then that Sister Constance, her face distorted by grief and the play of candlelight upon it, entered the west chamber with a baby in her arms!

Mary gripped the shutters—­she felt faint and weak.  Suppose she should slip and fall?

And then she saw two children on the bed and Sister Constance—­bent in prayer—­her cross pressed to her lips.

All this Mary had seen, but when Sister Angela asked her if she would like to go with Miss Fletcher and care for the children, so great was her curiosity that she, mentally, tore her roots from her home hills; let go her clinging to the deserted cabin where she had been born, and almost eagerly replied:  “I’d like it powerful.”