Tales of the Cloister
tude, and the faithful efforts of the chubby fingers, touched the Sister, used though she was to such sad sights. Twenty years of teaching and cloistered seclusion had not dried up the fountain of sympathy in her bosom. She laid a hand on the stiff braids, and, at the touch, the stoical figure relaxed and the unhappy infant looked up as one to whom the deliverer had come. The nun sat down beside her and pinched her pink cheek.
"Is it so very hard?" she asked, lightly. "Or is it because the sun is bright and some of the children are playing in the garden? If that is it, every little girl who ever played the piano has felt as you do, and some of those who are enjoying themselves now will be practising by and by, you know, when you are having your sunshine and play."
She wiped Ernestine's eyes with her handkerchief as she spoke, and talked on cheerfully, ignoring the pathetic sniffles that punctuated her remarks. "Or is it Heimweh?" she asked. "You are a little girl from Germany, are you not? And Sister Patience is your music teacher? She told me of you. She says you practise faithfully, and that some day you will be a good musician."
The child gulped heavily at this alluring prospect.
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