VIII
MARIA ANNUNCIATA
It had been a trying day in the _Searchlight_ office. Godfrey Morris,our assistant feature editor, was ill, and much of his work haddevolved on me. From ten o'clock in the morning I had steadily readcopy and "built heads," realizing as my blue pencil raced over thesheets before me that my associates would resent the cutting of theirstories and that Colonel Cartwell would freely condemn the heads. Itwas a tradition in Park Row that no human being save himself had everbuilt a newspaper head which satisfied our editor-in-chief, and hisnightly explosions of rage over those on the proofs that came to hisdesk jarred even the firm walls of the _Searchlight_ building.
To-day I sympathized with Colonel Cartwell, for as I bent wearily overmy desk, cutting, rewriting, adding to the pile of edited copy beforeme, a scare-head in a newspaper I had received that morning from myhome city swung constantly before my tired eyes. It was plain that theambitious Western editor had been taking lessons in head-building fromthe _Searchlight_ itself, and was offering us the tribute of humbleimitation; for, in the blackest type he could select, and stretchingacross two columns of the _Sentinel's_ first page, were thesestartling lines:
From City Room to Convent Cell
Miss May Iverson, Daughter of General John Lamar Iverson of This City, to Take the Vows of a Nun of the Sacred Cross
The article which followed was illustrated with photographs of myfather, of me, and of the convent from which I had graduated nearlyfour years ago. It sketched my career as a reporter on the New York_Searchlight_, mentioned my newspaper work and my various magazinestories with kindly approval, and stated that my intention when Igraduated at eighteen had been to enter the convent at twenty-one, butthat in deference to the wishes of my father I had consented to waitanother year. This time of probation was almost over, the _Sentinel_added, and it was "now admitted" that Miss Iverson, "despite thebrilliant promise of her journalistic career," would be one of thethirty novices who entered the convent of St. Catharine in July.
All this I had read only once before thrusting the _Sentinel_ out ofsight under the mass of copy on my desk. Now, word by word, itreturned to me as I built the heads that were to startle our readingpublic in the morning. Around me the usual sounds of the city roomswelled steadily into the familiar symphony of our work. Typewritersclicked and rattled, telephone bells kept up their insistent summons,the presses, now printing the final evening editions, sent from farbelow their deep and steady purr, while through it all the voices ofFarrell and Hurd cut their incisive way, like steamboat whistles in afog, to members of the staff. It was an hour I loved, even as I lovedthe corresponding hour at St. Catharine's, when students and nunsknelt together in the dim, beautiful convent chapel while the peace ofbenediction fell upon our souls. I wanted both the convent and mywork. I could not have them both. And even now, toward the end of myfourth year of professional life, I was still uncertain which I was tochoose. For months I had been hesitating, the helpless victim ofchanging moods, of conflicting desires. Now, I realized, there must bean end to these. The article in the _Sentinel_ had brought matters toa focus. In one way or the other, and for all time, I must decide myproblem.
It was six o'clock when I sent down the last pages of copy, closed mydesk, and walked out of the _Searchlight_ building to find myself inan unfamiliar world. Around me lay the worst fog New York had everknown--a fog so dense that the forms of my fellow pedestrians werealmost lost in it, though I could hear their voices on every side.From the near-by river the anxious warnings of horns and whistles cameto my ears thickly, as if through padded walls. The elevated station Ihad to reach was less than a block away, but to-night no friendly eyeof light winked at me from it, and twice as I walked cautiouslyforward I was jostled by vague bulks from which came short laughs andapologies as they groped their way past me.
It was an uncanny experience, but it seemed, in my present mood,merely a fitting accompaniment to my own mental chaos. Resolutely Itried to steady my thoughts to pull myself together. I knew every inchof the little journey to the station. In a few moments more, Ireflected, I would be comfortably seated in an elevated train, andwithin half an hour, if all went normally, I would be safely at homeand dressing for dinner. It was pleasant to remember that I had madeno engagement for that evening. I could dine alone, slowly andluxuriously, with an open book before me if I cared to add that lastsybaritic touch to my comfort--and later I could dawdle before my bigopen fire, with a reading-lamp and half a dozen new magazines wooingme at my elbow. Or I could take up my problem and settle it before Iwent to bed.
My groping feet touched the lowest step of the elevated stairs. I putmy hand forward to raise my skirt for the ascent, and simultaneously,as it seemed, a cold hand slipped through the fog and slid into mine,folding around two of my fingers. It was a very tiny hand--almost ababy's hand. Startled, I looked down. Something small and plump waspressing against my knee, and as I bent to examine it closely I sawthat it was a child--a little girl three or four years old,apparently lost, but obviously unafraid. Through the mist, as I kneltto bring her face on a level with my own, a pair of big and wonderfulbrown eyes looked steadily into mine, while a row of absurdly smallteeth shone upon me in a shy but trustful smile.
"Fine-kine-rady," remarked a wee voice in clear, dispassionate tones.
Impulsively I gave the intrepid adventurer a friendly hug. "Why, youblessed infant!" I exclaimed. "What are you doing here all alone?Where do you live? Where's your mama?"
Still kneeling, I waited for an answer, but none came. The soft littlebody of the new-comer leaned confidingly against my shoulder. A smallleft hand played with a button on my coat; its mate still clung firmlyto my fingers. The child's manner was that of pleased acceptance ofpermanent and agreeable conditions. Into the atmosphere of well-beingand dignified reserve which she created, my repeated questionprojected itself almost with an effect of rudeness. On its secondrepetition it evoked a response, though merely an echo.
"Fine-kine-rady," repeated the young stranger, patiently. Shecontinued her absorbing occupation of twirling my coat button while Ipondered over the cryptic utterance. It meant nothing to me.
"She's certainly lost," I thought. "I wonder if Casey would rememberher if he saw her."
I peered through the fog, looking for the big Irish policeman whosepost for the past two years had been here at the junction of the threetenement streets that radiated, spoke-like, from under the elevatedstation. He must be somewhere near, I knew, possibly within ear-shot.I decided to try the effect of a friendly hail.
"_Oh-ho--Officer Casey!_" I called, careful to speak cheerfully, thatthe cry might not frighten the child beside me. "_Where--are--you?_"
After a moment I heard an answering hail; an instant later thefamiliar bulk of Casey towered above me in the mist.
"Who's wantin' me?" he demanded, and then, as he recognized me:"Hel-_lo_, Miss Iverson! Sure ye're not lost, are ye?" he added,facetiously.
"I'm not," I told him, "but I think some one else is. Do you recognizethis youngster? I found her here just now--or, rather, she found me."
"Fine-kine-rady," murmured the child, antiphonally. She had turned herbrown velvet eyes on the policeman in one fleeting glance which seemedto label and dismiss him. His existence, her manner plainly said, wasno concern of hers. Casey bent down and surveyed her with interest--atask made somewhat difficult by the fact that she was coldlypresenting the back of her head to him and that the top of it wasabout on a level with his knee.
"Let's take her up t' the waitin'-room," he suggested, "an' have agood look at her. Can she walk, I wonder--or will I carry her?"
At the words the independent explorer below us started up the stairs,dragging me with her, her hand still clinging to my fingers, hershort, willing legs taking one step at a time and subject to anoccasional embarrassing wabble, but on the whole moving briskly andwith the ease of habit.
"She understands English," remarked Casey, as he admiringly followedher, "an' she
's used to stairs. _That's_ clear."
We found the waiting-room deserted except by the ticket-seller and theticket-chopper, who were languidly discussing the fog. Both took ananimated interest in our appearance, and, when they learned ourmission, eagerly approached the child for minute inspection of her. Inthe center of the little circle we made under the station lamp themite bore our regard with the utmost composure, her brown eyes on myface, her hand still firmly grasping my third and fourth fingers. Sheseemed mildly surprised by this second delay in getting anywhere, butentirely willing to await the convenience of these strange beings whowere talking so much without saying anything. The ticket-sellerfinally summed up the result of our joint observation.
"Whoever that kid is, she's a peach," he muttered, in spontaneoustribute to the living picture before us.
She _was_ a peach. Her bare head was covered with short, upstandingcurls, decorated on the left side with a cheap but carefully tiedscarlet bow that stood out with the vivid effect of a poinsettiaagainst black velvet. In her cheeks were two deep dimples, and athird lurked in the lower right side of her chin, awaiting only thesummons of her shy smile to spring into life. When she lowered hereyes her curly black lashes seemed unbelievably long, and when sheraised them again something in their strange beauty made me catch mybreath.
She wore no mittens, though the night was cold, but her tiny body wasbuttoned tightly into a worn, knitted, gray reefer-jacket, under whichshowed a neat little woolen skirt and black stockings and shoes which,though very shabby, revealed no holes. She was surprisingly clean. Shehad, indeed, an effect of having been scrubbed and dressed withspecial care and in her best clothes, poor though they were. Hercomplexion had the soft, warm olive tint peculiar to Latin races.
For a long time she bore the close scrutiny of our four pairs of eyeswith her astonishing air of calm detachment. Then, as the inspectionthreatened to be indefinitely prolonged, she became restless and tookrefuge against my knee. Also, with an obvious effort to rise to anysocial demands the occasion presented, she produced again themasterpiece of her limited vocabulary.
"Fine-kine-rady," she murmured, anxiously, and this time her lipsquivered.
"She's Eye-talian," decided Casey, sagely, "an' 'tis a sure thing shelives somewhere near. Hasn't _anny_ of yez set eyes on her before?Think, now."
Hopefully he and I gazed at the station employees, but both headsshook a solemn negative. The light of a sudden inspiration illuminedthe Celtic features of Casey.
"I'll tell ye what we'll do," he announced. "'Tis plain she's strayedfrom home. I c'u'd take her t' th' station an' let her folks come furher--but that's the long way t' do ut. There's a shorter wan. 'Tisthis."
He tried to draw me to one side, but the little manoeuver was notsuccessful. Tightening her grasp on my fingers, the object of oursolicitude promptly accompanied us. Casey lowered his voice to awhisper which was like the buzzing of a giant bee.
"I'll take her back to the fut of th' stairs an' _lave_ her," hepronounced. "She'll start home, an' she'll find her way like a burrd.Av course," he added, hastily, apparently observing a lack of responsein my expression, "I'll folly her an' watch her. Av she don't find th'place, I'll take her t' th' station. But she _will_. Lave it to her."
I hesitated. "I suppose that's the best plan," I unwillingly agreed,at last. "Probably her mother is half frightened to death already.But--couldn't we lead her home?"
Casey shook his head. "Not an inch w'u'd she budge, that wan," hedeclared, "unless she was on her own. But lave her be, an' she'll findher way. They're wise, thim young Eye-talians. Come, now."
He took the child's free hand and tried to draw her away. A patheticwail burst from her. Frantically, with both arms she clasped my knee.Her poise, so perfect until now, deserted her wholly, as if she hadfinally decided to admit to an unfeeling world that after all therewas a limit to the self-control of one of her tender age.
"Fine-kine-rady," she sobbed, while great tears formed and fell fromthe brown eyes she still kept fixed on my face, a look of increduloushorror dawning in them.
"I simply cannot send her away," I confessed to Casey, desperately."It seems so heartless. I'll go with her."
Officer Casey was a patient man, but he was also a firm one. "Now, seehere, Miss Iverson," he urged. "You've got sinse. Use ut. 'Tis just afancy she's takin' t' ye, an' sure I'm th' last t' blame her," headded, gallantly. "But think av th' child's good. Ain't her motherraisin' th' roof over her head somewhere this minute?" he added, withdeep craft. "Wud ye be killin' th' poor woman wid anxiety?"
"Well--" Again I gave way. "But you won't lose sight of her for onesecond, will you?" I demanded. "You know if you did, in this fog--"
Casey turned upon me the look of one who suffers and forbears. "W'u'dye think ut?" he asked, coldly. "An' me wit' kids o' me own? But I'llmake her _think_ I've left her," he added. "I'll have to."
There seemed nothing to do but try his plan. Holding fast to themental picture of the anxious mother "raising the roof" somewhere inthe neighborhood, I gently pried loose the child's convulsivelyclinging fingers and turned away. The wail and then the sobs thatfollowed wrung my heart. Casey picked up the frightened, almostfrantic baby and started down the stairs, while I followed at a safedistance to watch their descent. As they went I heard him talking toand coaxing the small burden he carried, his rich Irish voice full offriendly cajolery, while, as if in sole but eloquent rebuttal of allhe said, the shrill treble refrain, "Fine-kine-rady," came back to mesobbingly from the mist.
At the foot of the steps he set the child on her feet, told her to "gohome now like a good wan," and disappeared under the stairway. I creptdown the steps as far as I dared, and watched. The forlorn littlewanderer, left alone in a fog that was alarming many grown-ups thatnight, stood still for a moment staring around her, as if trying toget her bearings. A final sob or two came from her. Then in anotherinstant she had turned and trotted away, moving so fast that, though Iimmediately ran down the remaining steps and followed her, I couldhardly keep her in sight. A little ahead of me I saw Casey hurriedlycross the street and shadow the tiny figure. I pursued them both,keeping my eyes on the child. I trusted Casey--indeed, my respect forhis judgment had increased enormously during the last two minutes--butI felt that I must see for myself what happened to that baby.
Like wraiths the two figures in front of me hurried through the fog,so close now that they almost touched, Casey unaware of my presence,the child unconscious of us both. Not once, from the time she started,had the little thing looked back. She made her way swiftly and surelyalong the dingy tenement street that stretched off to the right; andat a certain door she stopped, hesitated a moment, and finallyentered. Casey promptly followed her.
For a moment I stood hesitating, tempted to return to the station andresume my interrupted journey home. The little episode had alreadydelayed me half an hour, and it seemed clear that the child was nowsafe. Surely nothing more could be done. Yet even as these logicalreflections occurred to me I entered the door, impelled by an impulsewhich I did not stop to analyze, but which I never afterward ceased tobless. The heavy, typical smell of a tenement building rose to meetme, intensified by the dampness of the night. It seemed incrediblethat anything so exquisite as that baby could belong to such a place;but, looking up, I saw her already near the head of a long flight ofdirty steps that rose from the dimly lighted hall. Casey, moving asquietly as his heavy boots permitted, was at the bottom. I waiteduntil he, too, had climbed the uneven staircase. Then I followed themboth.
At the right of the stairs, off a miserable hall lit by one dim,blinking gas-jet, was an open door, which the child had evidently justentered. As I paused for breath on the top step I caught a glimpse ofCasey's rubber coat also vanishing across the threshold. I slippedback into the shadow of the hall and waited. What I wanted was to hearthe reassuring tones of human voices, and I found myself listening forthese with suspended breath and straining ears; but for a long momentI heard nothing at all. I realized now that t
here was no light in theroom, and this suddenly seemed odd to me. Then I heard Casey's voice,speaking to the child with a new note in it--a note of tenseexcitement that made my heart-beats quicken. The next instant I, too,was in the room.
Casey stood under the single gas-bracket, striking a match. As I wenttoward him, the light flickered up, dimly revealing a clean, bleakroom, whose only furniture was a bed, a broken chair, and a smallgas-stove. On the chair lay an empty tin cup and a spoon. The child,her back to both her visitors, stood beside the bed. Characteristically,though Casey had spoken to her, she ignored his presence. She waswhimpering a little under her breath, and pulling with both hands atsomething that lay before her, rigid and unresponsive.
With a rush I crossed the room, and the desolate mite of humanity atthe bed turned to stare at me, blinking in the sudden light. For aninstant her wet brown eyes failed to recognize me. In the next, withan ecstatic, indescribably pathetic little cry, she lurched into thearms I opened to her. I could not speak, but I sat down on the floorand held her close, my tears falling on her curly head with its bravered bow. For a moment more the silence held. Then the child drew along, quivering breath and patiently uttered again her parrot-likerefrain.
"Fine-kine-rady," she murmured, brokenly.
Casey, his cap in his hand, stood looking down upon the silent figureon the bed. "Starvation, most likely," he hazarded. "She's bin deadfur an hour, maybe more," he mused aloud. "An' she's laid herself out,d'ye mind. Whin she found death comin' she drew her feet together, an'crost her hands on her breast, an' shut her eyes. They do utsometimes, whin they know they's no wan to do ut for thim. But firstshe washed an' dressed her child in uts best an' sint ut out--so utw'u'dn't be scairt. D'ye know th' woman?" he added. "Have ye ivir seenher? It seems t' me _I_ have!"
Holding the baby tight, her head against my shoulder, that she mightnot see what I did, I went forward and looked at the wasted face.There was something vaguely familiar about the black hair-line on thebroad, Madonna-like brow, about the exquisitely shaped nose, thesunken cheeks, the pointed chin. For a long moment I looked at themwhile memory stirred in me and then awoke.
"Yes," I said, at last. "I remember her now. Many evenings last monthI saw her standing at the foot of the elevated stairs when I was goinghome. She wore a little shawl over her head--that's why I didn'trecognize her at once. She never begged, but she took what one gaveher. I always gave her something. She was evidently very poor. Iremember vaguely that she had a child with her--this one, of course. Ihardly noticed either of them as I swept by. One's always in a rush,you know, to get home, and, unfortunately, there are so many beggars!"
"That's it," said Casey. "I remember her now, too."
"If only I had realized how ill she was," I reflected aloud,miserably, "or stopped to think of the child. She called me 'kindlady.' Oh, Casey! And I let her starve!"
"Hush now," said Casey, consolingly. "Sure how could ye know? Some ofthim that's beggin' has more than you have!"
"But she called me 'kind lady,'" I repeated. "And I let her--"
"Fine-kine-rady," murmured the child, drowsily, as if hearing andresponding to a cue. She was quiet and well content, again playingwith a coat-button; but she piped out her three words as if they werepart of a daily drill and the word of command had been uttered. Caseyand I looked at each other, then dropped our eyes.
"D'YE KNOW THE WOMAN?" HE SAID]
"_Find kind lady_," I translated at last. Then I broke down, in thebitterest storm of tears that I have ever known. Beside me Casey stoodguard, silent and unhappy. It was the whimper of the child thatrecalled me to myself and her. She was growing frightened.
"Oh, Casey," I said again, when I had soothed her, "do you realizethat the poor woman sent this baby out into New York to-night on theone chance in a million that she might see me at the station and thatI would remember her?"
"What else c'u'd the poor creature do?" muttered Casey. "I guess shewasn't dependin' on her neighbors much. 'Tis easy to see that iverystick o' furniture an' stitch o' clothes, ixcept th' child's, waspawned. Besides, thim tiniment kids is wise," he repeated. His blueeyes dwelt on the baby with a brooding speculation in their depths."She's sleepy," he muttered, "but she's not starved. Th' mother fedher t' th' last, an' wint without herself; an' she kep' her warm. Theydo that sometimes, too."
With quick decision he put on his cap and started for the door. "I'lltelephone me report," he said, briskly. "Will ye be waitin' here tillI come back? Thin we'll take th' mother t' th' morgue an' the child t'th' station."
"Oh no, we won't," I told him, gently. "We'll see that the mother hasproper burial. As for this baby, I'm going to take care of her until Ifind an ideal home for her. I know women who will thank God for her. Iwish," I added, absently--"I wish I could keep her myself."
Casey turned on me a face that was like a smiling full moon. "'Tislucky th' child is to have ye for a friend. But she'll be araysponsibil'ty," he reminded me, "and an expinse."
I kissed the tiny hand that clung to mine. "That won't worry me," Ideclared. "Why, do you know, Casey"--I drew the soft little bodycloser to me--"I feel that if I worked for her a thousand years Icould never make up to this baby for that horrible moment when Iturned her adrift again--after she had found me."
* * * * *
Two hours later my waif of the fog, having been fed and tubbed andtucked into one of my nightgowns, reposed in my bed, and, stillbeatifically clutching a cookie, sank into a restful slumber. My maid,a "settled" Norwegian who had been with me for two years, had welcomedher with hospitable rapture. A doctor had pronounced her in excellentphysical condition. A trained nurse, hastily summoned to supervise herbath, her supper, and her general welfare, had already drawn up animpressive plan indicating the broad highway of hygienic infantliving. Now, for the dozenth time, we were examining a scrap of paperwhich I had found in a tiny bag around the child's neck when Iundressed her. It bore a brief message written in a wavering, foreignhand:
Maria Annunciata Zamati 31/2 years old
Parents dead. No relations. Be good to her and God will be good to you.
Besides this in the little bag was a narrow gold band, wrapped in abit of paper that read:
Her mother's wedding-ring.
Broodingly I hung over the short but poignant record. "MariaAnnunciata," I repeated. "What a beautiful name! Three and a halfyears old! What an adorable age! No relations. No one can ever takeher from us! I shall be her godmother and her best friend, whoeveradopts her. And I'll keep her till the right mother comes for her, ifit takes the rest of my life."
The doctor laughed and bade us good night, after a final approvinglook at the sleeping baby in the big bed. The trained nurse departedwith evident reluctance for her room.
The telephone beside my bed clicked warningly, then tinkled. As I tookup the receiver a familiar voice came to me over the wire.
"Is that you, May?" it said. "This is Josephine Morgan. Did you get adinner invitation from me yesterday? Not hearing from you, I've beentrying to get you on the telephone all evening, but no one answered."
"I know," I said, cheerfully. "Awfully sorry. I've been busy. I've gota baby."
Maria Annunciata stirred in her sleep. Speaking very softly, that Imight not awaken her, I told Josephine the story of my adventure.
"Come and see her soon," I ended. "I mustn't talk any more.Annunciata is here beside me. She's absolutely different from anyother child in the world. Good night."
I undressed slowly, stopping at intervals to study the pleasing effectof Maria Annunciata's short black curls on the pillow. At last, movingvery carefully for fear of disturbing her, I crept into bed. Aspromptly as if the yielding of the mattress had been a signal that sether tiny body in motion, Maria Annunciata awoke, smiled at me, cuddledinto the curve of my left arm, reached up, and firmly grasped my leftear. Then, with a long sigh of ineffable content, she dropped backinto slumber.
The only light was the soft glo
w of an electric bulb behind an ambershade. The button that controlled it was within easy reach of my hand;a touch would have plunged the room into darkness. But I did not pressthe little knob. Instead, I lay for a long, long time looking at thesleeping child beside me.
There was a soft knock at the door. It opened quietly and my servantappeared.
"Mr. and Mrs. Morgan are outside," she whispered. "They say they'vecome to see the baby."
"But," I gasped, "it's after eleven o'clock!"
"I know. Mrs. Morgan said they couldn't wait till morning. Shall Ishow her in?"
I hesitated. I felt a sense of unreasonable annoyance, almost of fear."Yes," I said, at last, "let her come in."
Josephine Morgan came in with a soft little feminine rush. Somethingof the atmosphere of the great world in which she lived came with heras far as the bedside, then dropped from her like a garment as sheknelt beside us and kissed me, her eyes on Maria Annunciata's sleepingface.
"Oh, the darling, the lamb!" she breathed. "She's the most exquisitething I ever saw! And the pluck of her! George says she ought to havea Carnegie medal." Still kneeling, she bent over the child, herbeautiful face quivering with feeling. "What do you know about herfamily?" she asked.
With a gesture I indicated the scrap of paper and the ring that lay onmy dressing-table. "There's the whole record," I murmured.
She rose and examined them, standing very still for a momentafterward, apparently in deep thought. Then, still holding them, shereturned to the bedside and with a quick but indescribably tendermovement gathered Maria Annunciata into her arms. "Let me show her toGeorge," she whispered.
I consented, and she carried the sleeping baby into the next room. Iheard their voices and an occasional low laugh. A strange feeling ofloneliness settled upon me. In a few moments she came back, her facetransfigured. Bending, she put the child in bed and sat down besideher.
"May," she said, quietly, "George and I want her. Will you give her tous?"
The demand was so sudden that I could not speak. She looked at me, hereyes filling.
"We've been looking for a little daughter for two years," she added."We've visited dozens of institutions."
"But," I stammered, "I wanted to keep her myself--for a while,anyway."
She smiled at me. "Why, you will--" she began, and stopped.
"You may have her," I said, quietly.
She kissed me. "We'll make her happy," she promised. "I suppose," sheadded, "we couldn't take her away _to-night_? Of course the firstthing in the morning will _do_," she concluded, hastily, as she met myindignant gaze.
"Josephine Morgan," I gasped, "I never met such selfishness! Of courseyou can't have her to-night. You can't have her in the morning,either. You've got to adopt her legally, with red seals and things. Itwill take lots of time."
Mrs. Morgan laughed, passing a tender finger through one of MariaAnnunciata's short curls. "We'll do it," she said. "We'll do anything.And we're going to be in New York all winter, so you can be with her agreat deal while she's getting used to us. Now I'll go." But shelingered, making a pretext of tucking in the bedclothes around us."You've seen the _Sentinel_," she asked, "with that story about you?"
I shook my head at her. "Don't, please," I begged. "We'll talk aboutthat to-morrow."
She kissed the deep dimple in Maria Annunciata's left cheek. "Goodnight," she said, again. "You'll never know how happy you have madeus."
The door closed behind her. I raised my hand and pressed the buttonabove my head. Around me the friendly darkness settled, and a silenceas warm and friendly. In the hollow of my neck the face of MariaAnnunciata rested, a short curl tickling my cheek. I recalled "thegreat silence" that fell over the convent at nine o'clock when thelights went out, but to-night the reflection did not bring its usualthrob of homesickness and longing. Relaxed, content, I lay with eyeswide open, looking into the future. Without struggle, withoutself-analysis, but firmly and for all time, I had decided _not_ to bea nun.