She
wrote rapidly, and, as well as I could judge, appeared excited and
annoyed. I was excited also, but not in the least disturbed. My emotions
were of a highly pleasing character. We worked steadily for some twenty
minutes, when suddenly she stopped and laid down her pen.
"Of course it isn't right to speak," she said, turning in her chair and
speaking to me face to face, as one human being to another, "but as I
have said so much already, I don't suppose a little more will make
matters worse, and I must ask somebody's help in making up my mind what
I ought to do. I suspect I have made all sorts of mistakes in this
writing, but I could not keep my thoughts on my work. I have been trying
my best to decide how I ought to act, but I cannot make up my mind."
"I shall be delighted to help you, if I can," I ventured. "What's the
point that you cannot decide?"
"It is just this," she replied, fixing her blue eyes upon me with
earnest frankness: "am I to tell the sisters what has happened or not?
If I tell them, I know exactly what will be the result: I shall come
here no more, and I shall have to take Sister Hannah's place at the
Measles Refuge. There's nothing in this world that I hate like measles.
I've had them, but that doesn't make the slightest difference.
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