The Boy vaguely thought it looked familiar, before the Sister, blushing faintly, said: "We hope you won"t go before we have time to repair it."
"Why, it"s our old sled-cover!"
"Yes; it is very much cut and torn. But you do not go at once?"
"Yes, to-morrow."
"Oh! Father Brachet thought you would stay for a few days, at least."
"We have no time."
"You go, like the rest, for gold?"
"Like the rest."
"But you came before to help poor Nicholas out of his trouble."
"He was quite able to help himself, as it turned out."
"Why will you go so far, and at such risk?" she said, with a suddenness that startled them both.
"I--I--well, I think I go chiefly because I want to get my home back. I lost my home when I was a little chap. Where is your home?"
"Here."
"How long have you been here?"
"Nearly two years."
"Then how can you call it home?"
"I do that only that I may--speak your language. Of course, it is not my real home."
"Where is the real home?"
"I hope it is in heaven," she said, with a simplicity that took away all taint of cant or mere phrase-making.
"But where do you come from?"
"I come from Montreal."
"Oh! and don"t you ever go back to visit your people?"
"No, I never go back."
"But you will some time?"
"No; I shall never go back."
"Don"t you _want_ to?"
She dropped her eyes, but very steadfastly she said:
"My work is here."
"But you are young, and you may live a great, great many years."
She nodded, and looked out of the open door. The Colonel and the Travelling Priest were walking in Indian file the new-made, hard-packed path.
"Yes," she said in a level voice, "I shall grow old here, and here I shall be buried."
"I shall never understand it. I have such a longing for my home. I came here ready to bear anything that I might be able to get it back."
She looked at him steadily and gravely.
"I may be wrong, but I doubt if you would be satisfied even if you got it back--now."
"What makes you think that?" he said sharply.
"Because"--and she checked herself as if on the verge of something too personal--"you can never get back a thing you"ve lost. When the old thing is there again, you are not as you were when you lost it, and the change in you makes the old thing new--and strange."
"Oh, it"s plain I am very different from you," but he said it with a kind of uneasy defiance. "Besides, in any case, I shall do it for my sister"s sake."
"Oh, you have a sister?"
He nodded.
"How long since you left her?"
"It"s a good while now."
"Perhaps your sister won"t want that particular home any more than you when you two meet again." Then, seeming not to notice the shade on her companion"s face: "I promised my children they should sing for you. Do you mind? Will your friend come in, too?" And, looking from the door after the Colonel and the Father as they turned to rejoin them: "He is odd, that big friend of yours," she said--quite like a human being, as the Boy thought instantly.
"He"s not odd, I a.s.sure you."
"He called me "madam."" She spoke with a charming piqued childishness.
"You see, he didn"t know your name. What is your name?"
"Sister Winifred."
"But your real name?" he said, with the American"s insistence on his own point of view.
"That is my only name," she answered with dignity, and led the way back into the schoolroom. Another, older, nun was there, and when the others rejoined them they made the girls sing.
"Now we have shown you enough," said Father Richmond, rising; "boasted to you enough of the very little we are able to accomplish here. We must save something for to-morrow."
"Ah, to-morrow we take to the trail again," said the Colonel, and added his "Good-bye, madam."