"The man was a bit delirious and talked wildly, but at every question he hushed suddenly as if he were mortally afraid of something.
"He said he wanted no priest, insisted that he was able to start on. He was taking the child to someone who, he kept repeating, would believe him and understand.
"When I asked him what there was to believe and to whom he was taking the child, he looked at me strangely and laughed! He died before the priest came. I brought the girl away and somehow the report got around that she, too, had died, and we thought it best to let the matter rest there.
"A year later two men came to hear what we had to tell about the man who had died; he was wanted for—murder!"
"Not—that!" she panted. Then quickly regaining her self-control, "I see now why you felt you must keep the story secret," she continued, and sank back limply in her chair.
"Exactly," nodded Sister Mary, then glanced about the room and lowered her voice.
"I told the men about the father’s death—and—I said the girl had died later. Mam’selle, I took that course because one of the men, he said he had known the dead man, wanted the girl, and I could not trust the man; his eyes were bad. I feared for the child. ’Twas better that she stayed where she was, shielded, cared for. I had grown to be fond of her. I taught her carefully, she was a great help with the younger children. I hoped she would come into the Sisterhood, but perhaps it is best she should have a safe home."
"Is that all? Did those men tell you nothing of the past?" Jo’s words came like hard, quick strokes.
The waxen face of Sister Mary did not change expression. She had left life’s sordid problems so far behind that they were mere words to her.
"Oh! they had their story," she said. "The dead man had shot his wife because he discovered that she had a lover. He shot her in the presence of the little girl and the lover. Mam’selle, I believe the man with the officer was the lover. He wanted the child for reasons of his own; that was why I said—she was dead.
Jo Morey felt a strange sympathy with the pale little Sister and a deep gratitude.
"You’re a good woman!" she said to Sister Mary.
"I did my best for the girl," the Sister went on, still holding to her crucifix, "she never recovered her memory for that, God be praised! But she had a bright mind and I trained that carefully. She knows much from books; all that I could get for her. She never took kindly to—religion, and that is why Sister Angela was thinking of finding a home for her; the girl was not happy here, but we did our best."