San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1891-12-24

spark!ed, her strong white hands
contracted and opened and closed
again, as though she would grasp
something. The room, too, had be-
come warmer, and she had forgotten
to lay aside her furs. She forged for
more air, and, rising, walked across
the room. 1t occurred to her that
the great corridor would be deserted
and as quiet as her own apartm ent,
and she went ont and began to pace
the stone flags, her head high, looking
! straight before her.
She paced the corridor passing and
repassing beneath the light OF the
single lamp that hung in the middle,
walking quickly, with a sensation of
pleasure in the movement and the cold
draught that famed her cheek.
Sister Paul!' Unorna exclaimed,
recognizing her as her face came
under the glare of the lamp, and hold
ing out her hands.
''UnOrna" cried the nun, with an
intonatiou of surprise and pleasure.
Il did not know that you were here.
What brings you back to usP'
"A caprice, Sister Paul-nothing
bat a caprice. l shall, perhaps, be
gone o-mOrrow."
Il am sorry" answered the sister.
"One night is but a short retreat
from the world" She shook her head
rather sadly.
Much may happen in a night, "
replied Unorna, with a smile. You
used to tell me that the soul knew
nothing of time. Have you changed
your mind? Come into my room and
let us talk. | have not forgotten
your hours. You can have nothing to
do for the moment unless it is supper
time"
I'VE have just finished" said Sister
Paul, entering readily enough. The
other lady who is staying here insisted
upon supping in the guests refectory
out of curiosity, perhaps. poor
thing, and | met her on the stairs as
she was coming up"
Are she and | the only ones here?"
UnOrna asked carelessIy.
Yes. There is no one else, and
she only came this morning. You
see it is still the carnival season in
the world. 1t is in Lent that the
great ladies come to us, and then we
have often not room free"
The nun smiled sadly, shaking her
head again in a way that seemed
habitual with her.
After ALL, she added, as Unorna
ca i, 81,
should come then, rather than not at
all, though often think it would be
better still if they spent carnival in
the convent and Lent in the world"
The world you speak of would be
a gloomy place If you had the order
ing of it, Sister Paul. observed Unor-
ma with a little laugh.
All, well! dare say it would seem |
so to you. know little enough of |
the world as you understand it, save |
for what our guests tell me-and in
deed, | am glad that | do not know
more "
You know almost as much as | !
do"
The sister looked long and earnest
~ into UnOrna's face, as though |
searching for something.
What is your life. Unorna?" she
asked, suddenly. I'VE hear strange
tales of it sometimes, though we
know, also, that you do great works
of charity. But we hear strange
tales and strange words
DO you?r UnOl ma suppressed
smile of scOrn. 'What do people Say |
OF me? | never asked
Strange things strange things"
repeated the nun. with a shake of the
head.
What are they? Tell me one of
them, as an instance
II should fear to offend you-in-
deed, am sure 1 should, though we
were good friends once
And are still. The more reason |
why you should tell me what is said.
or course, am alone in the world and |
people will always tell vile tales OF |
women who have no one to protect
them"
No no, Sister Paul fastened to
assure her. ''As a woman, no word |
has reached us that touches your fair
name. On the contrary, | nave heard
worldly women say much more that is
good of you in that respect than they
will say of each other. But there are |
other things, Unorna-other things |
which fill me with fear for you.
They call you by name that makes
me shudder when hear it,"
"A name?" repeated Unorna in
surprise, and with considerable Curl
osity.
"A name-a word-what YOU will