Tales of the Cloister
over the wax pieces on the small tables, and scrutinizing with his near-sighted eyes the paintings and embroideries on the wall. He dreaded the fifteen minutes before him with his keener realization of the cost of the kindly impulse that had made him come. But the sense of personal tax faded away as he turned to greet the young nun he had known since she was a child. He held out both hands, and she laid her own in them. Then he bowed gravely to the Sister who accompanied her, and placed chairs for them both with punctilious courtesy. Not a word had been spoken, but his quick eyes had already taken in every detail of the novice's expression, and he, too, wondered.
"You can surmise my melancholy errand, Sister," he said, gently. "Your dear mother died a week ago to-day—the day you must have received the letter I wrote telling you of her illness. You could hardly have reached her in time, you see, even had you started at once. I thought there might be some comfort to you in hearing of her last hours, and so I have ventured to make this call."
"You are very kind," said the nun, softly.
Dr. Sedgwick rubbed his glasses. He was conscious of a sensation touching on irritability. Was this the warm-hearted girl he had
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