“All right—­just as you say,” rejoined Miss Jennings cheerily.  “My only desire was to make you comfortable.”

That night at dinner Sister Teresa and Nurse Jennings found themselves seated next to each other, the Chief Steward, who had special orders from the First Officer to show Miss Jennings and her companion every courtesy, having conducted them to their seats.

Before the repast was half over, the two had attracted the attention of all about them.  What was particularly noticed was the abstemious self-denying life of the Sister so plainly shown in the lines of her grave, almost hard, face, framed close in the tight bands of white linen concealing every vestige of her hair, the whole in strong contrast to the kind, sympathetic face of the Nurse, whose soft gray locks hung loosely about her temples.  Their history, gleaned at the First Officer’s table had also become public property.  Nurse Jennings had served two years in South Africa, where she had charge of a ward in one of the largest field hospitals outside of Pretoria; on her return to England, she had been placed over an important case in one of the London hospitals—­that of a gallant Canadian officer who had been shipped home convalescent, and who had now sent for her to come to him in Montreal.  The good Sister was one of those unfortunate women who had been expelled from France under the new law, and who was now on her way to Quebec, there to take up her life-work again.  This had been the fifth refugee, the officer added, whom the Line had cared for.

When the hour for retiring came, Sister Teresa, with the remark that she would wait until Miss Jennings was in bed before she sought her own berth, followed her companion to the stateroom, bade her good-night, and then, with her hand on the knob, lingered for a moment as if there was still some further word on her lips.

“What is it?” asked the Nurse, with one of her direct, searching glances.  “Speak out—­I’m a woman like yourself, and can understand.”

“Well, it’s about the Hour of Silence.  I must have one hour every day when I can be alone.  It has been the custom of my life and I cannot omit it.  It will be many days before we reach the land, and there is no other place for me to pray except in here.  Would you object if I—­”

“Object!  Of course not!  I will help you to keep it, and I will see, too, that the Stewardess does not disturb you.  Now, is there anything else?  Tell me —­I love people who speak right out what they mean.”

“No—­except that I always rise at dawn, and will be gone when you wake.  Good-night.”

The morning after this first night the two lay in their steamer chairs on the upper deck.  The First Officer, noticing them together, paused for a moment on his way to the bridge: 

“You knew, of course, Miss Jennings, that Hobson went back to Cherbourg on the tender.  He left good-by for you.”

“Hunting for somebody, as usual, I suppose?” she rejoined.