"Wrote it!" she cried. "I never wrote a line of it. It was Sister Sarah
who was your secretary yesterday. Didn't you know that?"
I stood for a moment utterly unable to answer; then I gasped, "Sister
Sarah wrote for me yesterday! What does it mean?"
"Positively," said she, pushing back her chair and rising to her feet,
"this is not only the funniest, but the most wonderful thing in the
world. Do you mean truly to say that you did not know it was Sister
Sarah who wrote for you yesterday?"
"I did not suspect it for an instant," I answered.
"It was, it was!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands in her earnestness,
and stepping closer to the grating. "When we came here yesterday, and
found you were not in your room, a sudden idea struck her. 'I will stay
here myself, this morning,' she said, 'and do his writing. I want to
know what sort of a story this is that is being dictated to a sister of
our House;' and so she simply turned me out and told me to go home. You
don't know how frightened I was. I was afraid that, as we dress exactly
alike, you might not at first notice that Sister Sarah was sitting at
the table, and that you might begin with an awfully affectionate speech
by Tomaso; for I knew that something of that kind was just on the point
of breaking out, and I knew too that if you did it there would be lively
times in the House of Martha, and perhaps here also.
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