"I never shall be a bride or a wife or mother.

I will have a quiet, independent life--like yours." The sunshine fell on the girl's grave, uplifted face, on the white walls, the blue stove, and the calm, watching Madonnas.

Clara, as Mrs.
Waldeaux had done, thought of a nun in her cell to whom love could only be a sacred dream.
She smiled back at Lucy, bade her goodnight, and closed the door.
"Like mine ?" she said, as she went down the corridor.

"Well, it is a comfortable, quiet life.

But empty----" And she laid her hand suddenly across her thin breast.
Jean listened in silence when Clara told her briefly that Lucy was not going.
"She is very shrewd," she said presently.