‘We love her too much,’ said the spectacled sister with dignity. ‘And as for faults, how can we give what we have not? Le couvent n’est pas comme le monde, monsieur.⁶ She’s our daughter, as you may say. We’ve had her since she was so small.’

‘Of all those we shall lose this year she’s the one we shall miss most,’ the younger woman murmured deferentially.

‘Ah, yes, we shall talk long of her,’ said the other. ‘We shall hold her up to the new ones.’ And at this the good sister appeared to find her spectacles dim; while her companion, after fumbling a moment, presently drew forth a pocket-handkerchief of durable texture.

‘It’s not certain you’ll lose her; nothing’s settled yet,’ their host rejoined quickly; not as if to anticipate their tears, but in the tone of a man saying what was most agreeable to himself.

‘We should be very happy to believe that. Fifteen is very young to leave us.’

‘Oh,’ exclaimed the gentleman with more vivacity than he had yet used, ‘it is not I who wish to take her away. I wish you could keep her always!’

‘Ah, monsieur,’ said the elder sister, smiling and getting up, ‘good as she is, she’s made for the world. Le monde y gagnera.’⁷

‘If all the good people were hidden away in convents how would the world get on?’ her companion softly enquired, rising also.

This was a question of a wider bearing than the good woman apparently supposed; and the lady in spectacles took a harmonizing view by saying comfortably: ‘Fortunately there are good people everywhere.’

‘If you’re going there will be two less here,’ her host remarked gallantly.

For this extravagant sally his simple visitors had no answer, and they simply looked at each other in decent deprecation; but their confusion was speedily covered by the return of the young girl with two large bunches of roses—one of them all white, the other red.

‘I give you your choice, mamman Catherine,’ said the child. ‘It’s only the colour that’s different, mamman Justine; there are just as many roses in one bunch as in the other.’

The two sisters turned to each other, smiling and hesitating, with ‘Which will you take?’ and ‘No, it’s for you to choose.’

‘I’ll take the red, thank you,’ said mother Catherine in the spectacles. ‘I’m so red myself. They’ll comfort us on our way back to Rome.’

‘Ah, they won’t last,’ cried the young girl. ‘I wish I could give you something that would last!’

‘You’ve given us a good memory of yourself, my daughter. That will last!’

‘I wish nuns could wear pretty things. I would give you my blue beads,’ the child went on.

‘And do you go back to Rome to-night?’ her father enquired.

‘Yes, we take the train again. We’ve so much to do là-bas.’⁸

‘Are you not tired?’

‘We are never tired.’