After breakfast Veronica came to Evelyn, saying that dear Mother would like to speak to her.  Evelyn nodded, and went gaily to see the Prioress in her room on the ground-floor.  Its long French windows, opening on to the terrace-walk, appealed to her taste; and the crowded writing-table, on which stood a beautiful crucifix in yellow ivory.  Papers and tin boxes were piled in one corner.  But there was no carpet, and only one armchair, over-worn and shabby.  There were flowers in vases and bowls, and, in a large cage, canaries uttered their piercing songs.

“I like your room, dear Mother, and wish you would send for me a little oftener.  All your writing ­now couldn’t I do some of it for you?”

“Yes, Evelyn, I should like to use you sometimes as a secretary... if you are going to remain with us.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Mother.”

“Well, sit down.  I have sent for you because I want to have a little talk with you on this subject.”  And she spoke of Evelyn’s postulancy; of how long it had lasted.  It seemed to the Prioress that it would be better, supposing Evelyn did not intend to remain with them, for her to live with them as an oblate, occupying the guest-chamber.

“Your health doesn’t permit much religious instruction; but one of these days you will realise better than you do now what our life is, and what its objects are.”

So did the Prioress talk, getting nearer the point towards which she was making, without, however, pressing Evelyn to answer any direct question, leading her towards an involuntary decision.

“But, dear Mother, I am safe here, you know.”

“And yet you fear, my dear child, you have no vocation?”

“Well, it seems extraordinary that I ­”

“More extraordinary things have happened in the world than that; besides, there is much time for you to decide.  No one proposes that you should be admitted to the Order to-morrow; such a thing, you know, is impossible, but the white veil is a great help.  Evelyn, dear, this question has been running in my mind some time back ­is it well for you to remain a postulant any longer?  The white veil, again I say, is such a help.”

“A help for what, dear Mother?”

“Well, it will tell you if you have a vocation; at the end of the year you will know much better than you know now.”

“I a nun!” Evelyn repeated.

“In a year you will be better able to decide.  Extraordinary things have happened.”

“But it would be extraordinary,” Evelyn said, speaking to herself rather than to the nun.

“I have spoken to Mother Hilda and Mother Philippa on the subject, and they are agreed that if you are to remain in the convent it would be better for you to take the white veil.”

“Or do they think that it would be better for me to leave the convent?”

“It would be impossible for us to think such a thing, my dear child.”

“But what I would wish to understand, dear Mother, is this ­have I to decide either to leave the convent or to take the white veil?”

“Oh, no; but you have been so long a postulant.”

“But when I went to Rome my postulancy ­”

“Even so, you have been a postulant for over a year; and, should you discover that you have no vocation, the fact of having been a novice, of having worn the white veil, will be a protection to you ever afterwards, should you return to the world.”

“You think so, dear Mother?”

And the Prioress read in Evelyn’s face that she had touched the right note.

“Yes, to have a name, for instance ­not only the veil, but the name.  I have been thinking of a name for you ­what do you think of ’Teresa’?”

“Teresa!” Evelyn answered.  And her thoughts went to the great nun whose literature she had first read in the garden outside, when she walked there as a visitor.  It was under a certain tree, where she had often sat since with Mother Hilda and the novices, that she had first read the “Autobiography” and “The Way of Perfection.”  There were the saints’ poems, too; and, thinking of them, a pride awoke in her that for a time, at least, she should bear the saint’s name.  The Prioress was right, the saint’s name would fortify her against her enemy; and her noviceship would be something to look back upon, and the memory of it would protect her when she left the convent.

“I am glad that we shall have you, at all events, for some months more with us ­some months more for sure, perhaps always.  But take time to consider it.”

“Dear Mother, I am quite decided.”

“Think it over.  You can tell me your decision some time in the afternoon, or to-morrow.”

It was a few days after that the Prioress took Evelyn up to the novitiate, where the novices were making the dress that Evelyn was to wear when she received the white veil.

“You see, Teresa, we spare no expense or trouble on your dress,” said the Prioress.

“Oh, it is no trouble, dear Mother.”  And Sister Angela rose from her chair and turned the dress right side out and shook it, so that Evelyn might admire the handsome folds into which the silk fell.

“And see, here is the wreath,” said Sister Jerome, picking up a wreath of orange-blossoms from a chair.

“And what do you think of your veil, Sister Teresa?  Sister Rufina did this feather-stitch.  Hasn’t she done it beautifully?”

“And Sister Rufina is making your wedding-cake.  Mother Philippa has told her to put in as many raisins and currants as she pleases.  Yours will be the richest cake we have ever had in the convent.”  Sister Angela spoke very demurely, for she was thinking of the portion of the cake that would come to her, and there was a little gluttony in her voice as she spoke of the almond paste it would have upon it.

“It is indeed a pity,” said Sister Jerome, “that Sister Teresa’s clothing takes place so early in the year.”

“How so, Sister Jerome?” Evelyn asked incautiously.

“Because if it had been a little later, or if Monsignor had not been delayed in Rome ­I only thought,” she added, stopping short, “that you would like Monsignor to give you the white veil ­it would be nicer for you; or if the Bishop gave it,” she added, “or Father Ambrose.  I am sure Sister Veronica never would have been a nun at all if Father Ambrose had not professed her.  Father Daly is such a little frump.”

“That will do, children; I cannot really allow our chaplain to be spoken of in that manner.”  And Mother Hilda looked at Evelyn, thinking, “Well, the Prioress has had her way with her.”

The recreation-bell rang, and the novices clattered down the stairs of the novitiate, their childish eagerness rousing Evelyn from the mild stupor which still seemed to hang about her mind; and she smiled at the novices and at herself, for suddenly it had all begun to seem to her like a scene in a play, herself going to take the white veil and to become a nun, at all events, for a while.  “Now, how is all this to end?” she asked herself.  “But what does it matter?” Clouds seemed to envelop her mind again, and she acquiesced when the Prioress said: 

“I think your retreat had better begin to-day.”

“When, Mother?”

“Well, from this moment.”

“If Teresa will come into the garden with me,” said Mother Hilda.

It was impossible for the Prioress to say no, and a slaty blush of anger came into her cheek.  “Hilda will do all she can to prevent her.”  Nor was the Prioress wholly wrong in her surmise, for they had not walked very far before Evelyn admitted that the idea of the white veil frightened her a great deal.

“Frightens you, my dear child?”

“But if I had a vocation I should not feel frightened.  Isn’t that so, Mother Hilda?”

“I shouldn’t like to say that, Teresa.  One can feel frightened and yet desire a thing very much; desire and fear are not incompatible.”

Tears glistened in her eyes, and she appealed to Mother Hilda, saying: 

“Dear Mother, I don’t know why I am crying, but I am very unhappy.  There is no reason why I should be, for here I am safe.”

“Will she ever recover her mind sufficiently to know what she is doing?” Mother Hilda asked herself.

“It is always,” Evelyn said, “as if I were trying to escape from something.”  Mother Hilda pressed her to explain.  “I cannot explain myself better than by telling that it is as if the house were burning behind me, and I were trying to get away.”

That evening Mother Hilda consulted the Prioress, telling her of Evelyn’s tears and confusion.

“But, Hilda, why do you trouble her with questions as to whether she would like to be a nun or not?  As I have said repeatedly, the veil is a great help, and, in a year hence, Teresa will know whether she’d like to join our community.  In the meantime, pray let her be in peace and recover herself.”  The Prioress’s voice was stern.

“Only this, dear Mother ­”

“The mistake you make, Hilda, seems to me to be that you imagine every one turns to religion and to the convent for the same reason, whereas the reasons that bring us to God are widely different.  You are disappointed in Teresa, not because she lacks piety, but because she is not like Jerome or Angela or Veronica, whom we both know very well.  Each seeks her need in religion, and you are not acquainted with Teresa’s, that is all.  Now, Hilda, obedience is the first of all the virtues, and I claim yours in all that regards Teresa.”  Mother Hilda raised her quiet eyes and looked into the Prioress’s face, and then lowered them again.  “We should be lacking in our duty,” the Prioress continued, “if we don’t try to keep her by all legitimate means.  She will receive the white veil at the end of the week; try to prepare her for her clothing, instruct her in the rule of our house; no one can do that as well as you.”

Lifting her eyes again for a moment, Mother Hilda answered that it should be as the Prioress wished ­that she would do her best to instruct Teresa; and she moved away slowly, the Prioress not seeking to detain her any longer in her room.