The guests of Hercules

								

take the vows with me. Reverend Mother would have welcomed her gladly,
in spite of all. She loved Marie. So did the sisters; and though none of
them ever talk about her--at least, to me--I feel sure they haven't
forgotten, or stopped praying for her."
"Do you suppose they guess that we found out what really happened to
Marie, after she ran away?" Peter wanted to know.
"I hardly think so. You see, we couldn't have found out if it hadn't
been for Janet Churchill, the one girl in school who didn't live in the
convent. And Janet wasn't a bit the sort they would expect to know such
things."
"Or about anything else. Her stolidity was a very useful pose. You'd
find it a useful one, too, darling, 'out in the world,' as you call it;
but you'll never be clever in that way, I'm afraid."
"In what way?"
"In hiding things you feel. Or in not feeling things that are
uncomfortable to feel."
"Don't frighten me!" Mary exclaimed. They had walked to the end of the
path, and were standing by the sundial. She turned abruptly, and looked
with a certain eagerness toward the far-off façade of the convent, with
its many windows. On the leaded panes of those in the west wing the sun
still lingered, and struck out glints as of rubies in a gold setting.
All the other windows were in shadow now. "We must go in," Mary said.
"Lady MacMillan will be coming soon, and I have lots to do before I
start."
"What have you to do, except to dress?"
"Oh!--to say goodbye to them all. And it seems as if I could never
finish saying goodbye."
Peter did not meet her friend again after they had gone into the house
until Mary had laid away the habit of Sister Rose the novice and put on
the simple gray travelling frock in which Mary Grant was to go "out into
the world." Peter had been extremely curious to see her in this, for it
was three years ago and more since she had last had a sight of Mary in
"worldly dress." That was on the day when Molly Maxwell had left the
convent as a schoolgirl, to go back to America with her father; and
almost immediately Mary Grant had given up such garments, as she thought
forever, in becoming a postulant.
Not since then had Peter seen Mary's hair, which by this time would have
been cut close to her head if she had not suddenly discovered, just in
time, that she had "lost her vocation." Mary had beautiful hair. All the
girls in school had admired it. Peter had hated to think of its being
cut off; and lately, since the sudden change in Mary's mind, the
American girl had wondered if the peculiar, silvery blond had darkened.
It would be a pity if it had, for her hair had been one of Mary's chief
beauties, and if it had changed she would not be as lovely as of old,
particularly as she had lost the brilliant bloom of colour she had had
as a schoolgirl, her cheeks becoming white instead of pink roses.
It seemed to Peter that she could not remember exactly what Mary had