Newton watched her as she took it; the expression of her face was scarcely childlike. May I ask you something?' she said. He wondered what was coming; the girl's face looked so unnaturally grave. 'I want to ask someone about Aunt Nesta,' she added, and no one talks of her here.'

A look of blank dismay spread over the child's face, as Newton told her that he knew nothing. 'I felt so sure you would, she said, 'I was thinking of it all dinner time, and I wanted so to ask before you

you

went away. when we all came away,-Uncle Tom came over to fetch us about a month after dear papa's death, and we all cried so to go away and Aunt Nesta cried too, and it made Uncle Tom angry, and he said we were ungrateful. I don't think we were ungrateful, only we were so sorry to leave Aunt Nesta. I used to ask grandmamma about her, but she told me one day that she was going to be a sister of charity and that she had no patience with such vagaries in a member of the Church of

She was so very, very sorry

England. I have never asked since, I don't like.'

She had clasped the little pencil-case tightly in her hand as she was speaking.

Newton remembered the day on which he had picked it up and told Nesta he should keep it. It was one day when the life before him looked very bright and sunshiny and unlike what it had been. It was during Dick's illness, when the pencil had been given to the boy to play with. He remembered the house, the room, the whole entourages, as vividly as if they were before him now; Nesta standing there, tall and slim, in her long white dress, and the ribands in her dark hair. It was the one little relic left of it all; everything else had altered, even the children almost grown out of memory, and himself, perhaps he was the most changed of all. Yes, everything was changed, but this one little relic and his unalterable love for Nesta.

He put the pencil-case back in his pocket; he could not part with it.

Newton watched her as she took it; the expression of her face was scarcely childlike.

May I ask you something?' she said. He wondered what was coming; the girl's face looked so unnaturally grave. 'I want to ask someone about Aunt Nesta,' she added, and no one talks of her here.'

A look of blank dismay spread over the child's face, as Newton told her that he knew nothing. 'I felt so sure you would, she said, 'I was thinking of it all dinner time, and I wanted so to ask you before you went away. She was so very, very sorry when we all came away,-Uncle Tom came over to fetch us about a month after dear papa's death, and we all cried so to go away and Aunt Nesta cried too, and it made Uncle Tom angry, and he said we were ungrateful. I don't think we were ungrateful, only we were so sorry to leave Aunt Nesta. I used to ask grandmamma about her, but she told me one day that she was going to be a sister of charity and that she had no patience with such vagaries in a member of the Church of

273

CHAPTER XVIII.

SISTER NESTA.

'Life all past

Is like the sky when the sun sets in it,
Clearest where furthest off.'

REPORT had not been far wrong as regarded Nesta. She had not, it is true, become a sister of charity, but she had associated herself with a religious establishment, and in connection with it had found her mission. She had taken no vows, subjected herself to few rules, and accepted few restraints. To live for others, was the law by which she had bound herself. To live to God was the vow she had taken. Externals of dress were only adopted to avoid remark. The cross hung from her girdle,—the true cross was in her heart. She had been to a hospital first to learn all that was necessary to learn for her

T

vocation. That was her noviciate; she had come out of it, feeling that her real noviciate had been the work of life. A few sick beds had taught her something, but sympathy with suffering had taught her more; and she did sympathise with suffering. The first feeling of bereavement had been one terrible blank. There was nothing more to live for, she was alone in the world. The children who could have helped to fill the void were taken from her and sent to relations in England; she had written once or twice, and after long intervals had received neat unblotted replies, too unlike the productions of childhood to give her pleasure. She had written to Alice; telling her of the step she was taking, and explaining it to her as far as was necessary. It need in nowise separate her from those she loved, it was no farewell to the world, no exclusion from its interests. But the letter had never reached Alice; some time after it was returned to the writer with a request that the communication between her and the children should cease. So her