Page:Elizabeth Jordan--Tales of the cloister.djvu/17

 was life at its greatest pressure—life with its twentieth-century strain and sin and suffering. Here were quiet and peace. There was repose in the dim chapel, in the long, silent corridors, in the rooms where the inmates worked and prayed, in the vaults below these, where many of their predecessors slept their last sleep. The reflection of this peace was in the serene faces of the nuns who strolled along the walks, their slight figures outlined by their severely simple black habits, and their heads innocently erect under their flowing veils. The night air was full of the murmur of their wonderful voices, as characteristic of the cloister as its atmosphere.

The straining young eyes on the balconies singled out their two favorites from the groups below, and watched them as the light grew dim. No pupil had ever been invited to join them in this evening promenade, but, as May Iverson hopefully remarked, there was always a chance that unselfish devotion would yet have its reward. Miss Iverson was seventeen and sentimental. She expected to be graduated at the end of the year. In the mean time she wrote notes to Sister George concerning the bitterness of existence, and put roses on her desk in the class-room, and laid bare her heart to her whenever that dignified woman could be induced to inspect the view, which was not often.