Tales of the Cloister
for all the past and all the future. You are not to blame. God has made you His instrument of chastisement. Before I go, is there anything in the world I can do for you—is there anything I can say?"
"Nothing," said the blond girl, briefly.
Sister Chrysostom turned to my sister and held out her hands.
"Take me away," she said, and then she went all to pieces and cried like a little child. "Take me from this place—take me back."
My sister turned her back on the blond girl, and so did I. Grace's face was white and set—I have never seen her look so angry. We drew the veil over Sister Chrysostom's face, and we each put an arm around her and half carried her out into the grimy passage-way. We met the dirty boy coming to give the blond girl her cue, and we heard the orchestra striking into the music I suppose she was going to dance. I glanced behind and the girl beckoned to me. Her face was twisted in a queer way, and her cheeks looked a sickly white under their paint. I went back and she caught my hand.
"I had to do it," she gasped out. "It was best for her and for me. She'll stop caring for me now and be content in the convent. And if I had been nice to her she'd have asked me all sorts of questions that I couldn't answer—
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