The old Diplomat paused and looked unseeingly before him, as if he were calling up a picture.

"The convent hospital had a beautiful garden," the Diplomat resumed, at last. "There the mother spent the next few days working among the flowers and following the lay Sisters along the garden walks as a contented child follows its nurse. Once a day she was allowed to see her daughter for a few moments. It was her custom to reach the sick-room long before the hour appointed and to wait in the hall until she was admitted. She said the time of waiting seemed shorter there, where she was so near. So one day, when a pale Sister told her that her daughter was not quite ready to be seen, the old lady was not surprised. This was her usual experience.

"Nothing warned her, no intuition told her, that her daughter had died exactly five minutes before and that the Sisters back of that closed door were huddled together, trying to find words to tell her what had happened. They could not find them; words scamper away like frightened beings in moments like that. So they sent for their Mother Superior, and she came and put an arm around the bent shoulders of the old woman and told her that her daughter's pain and trouble were over for all time. Later they took her into the room where her daughter lay in a peace which remained triumphant even while the mother's heart broke as she looked upon it. When they found that they could not persuade her to leave the room they allowed her to remain; and there she sat at the foot of the bed day and night, while the Sisters came and went and knelt and prayed, and the long wax tapers at the head and feet of the dead nun burned slowly down to their sockets."

The Diplomat stopped. Then, as no one spoke, he turned to the Author.

"Will you go on?" he asked.

The Author took up the tale. "Mother Elise was buried in Rome," he said, "and in the chapel of the White Sisters tapers still burn for her. Her mother remained there, and was given a home in the convent, because she had no other place to go. It was kind of the Sisters, for, unlike her daughter, she was not a Catholic. But her old heart was broken, and as months pa.s.sed and she began to realize what had happened she was filled with a great longing for her native land. The bells of Rome got on her shattered nerves. They seemed eternally ringing for her dead. From the garden she could see her daughter's grave on the hill just beyond the convent walls. She longed for the only thing she had left--her own country. She longed to hear her native tongue. She said so to all who would listen. One day she received an anonymous letter, inclosing bank-notes for five thousand lira. The letter read:

"I hear that you are homesick. Take this money and return to your native land. It will pay your pa.s.sage and secure your admission to a home for aged gentlewomen. Do not try to discover the source of the gift.

"FROM ONE WHO LOVED YOUR DAUGHTER.

"A little blossom of comfort bloomed in the old woman's heart, like an edelweiss on a glacier. She packed her few possessions and sailed for America. There was no one to meet her, but she had kept the name and address of the woman editor; she was sure the editor would advise her about getting into the right home. In the mean time she went from the steamer to a cheap New York lodging-house, of which some fellow pa.s.senger had told her, and from there she sent a hurried summons to the editor. She was already panic-stricken in this big country, which held the graves of all she loved but one. It suddenly seemed to her as strange, as terrible as Italy. She was afraid of everything--afraid of the people she met, of the sounds she heard, of the prying lodging-house keeper and her red-eyed husband. Most of all, she was afraid of these two, and she had reason to be.

"The editor had not even known the old lady was coming to this country, but she responded to the call the night she received it, for she could tell that the writer was frantic with fear. She climbed three flights of rickety stairs and found the old woman in a state of unreasoning terror, like a lost child in the dark. Already the keepers of the lodging-house had tried to get her money from her; she was hungry, for they did not furnish meals, and she had been afraid to go out for food. The editor took her away from the place that night and home to her own apartment. There she had a long talk with her.

"'Now, Mrs. Driscoll,' she said, 'I want you to forget your troubles if you can and settle down here and be at peace. Leave the matter of the home to me. I will find the right place, and when I have found it I will tell you about it and take you to see it. Then, if you approve, in you go. We will put your money in the bank to-morrow and leave it there until the matter of the home is settled. In the mean time don't think or talk about the future. It may take some time to find the right home. I'm not going to run to you with every hope or disappointment that my investigation brings. Forget about it yourself, but don't think I have forgotten because I am not keeping you stirred up with daily or weekly reports.'

"The old lady settled down like a contented child in its mother's lap.

As the weeks pa.s.sed her eyes lost their look of panic and took on the serenity of age. Her thin figure filled out. She transferred to her only friend something of the devotion she had given her daughter. She was almost happy.

"In the mean time the editor began her investigations, and she at once discovered that it is not easy to find a home for an aged and indigent gentlewoman. All the inst.i.tutions to which she applied were filled, and each had waiting-lists that looked, she said, 'yards long.' The secretaries were courteous. They almost invariably sent her lists of other inst.i.tutions, and she wrote to these, or visited them if they were within reach; and the weeks and months crawled by, and the city grew hot and stifling. She was worn out by the quest to which she was giving every hour of her spare time, but she was no nearer success than she had been the first day. She had arranged to go to Europe for a rest which she sadly needed, and the date of her sailing was very near. But she could not go and leave her protegee unprovided for, nor could she leave her alone with a servant. Her search became a very serious thing; it kept her awake nights; it got on her nerves; it became an obsession which, waking or sleeping, she could not forget.

She began to go down under it, but no one knew that, for she kept it to herself; and the least suspicious person of all her friends was the old lady, who each evening listened for her footstep as one listens for that of the best beloved, coming home."

The Author stopped.

"By Jove!" said the Best Seller, "it _is_ a depressing yarn. Let me see if I can't brighten it up a bit."

But the Author glanced at me. "Forgive me, old man," he said to the Best Seller, who was a friend of his. "I know what you would do. You would certainly brighten it up. You would discover a long-lost son, throw in Thanksgiving at the old home, and wind up with the tango. I think Miss Iverson ought to go on with the story."

He and the Playwright smiled at me. I felt neither nervous nor self-conscious as I took up the story, but the Best Seller openly grumbled.

"I could put some snap in that," he exclaimed. "But go on, Miss Iverson. Only I call this a close corporation."

"There came," I began, "a very hot day. The editor had heard of a home beyond the city limits, where the view was beautiful and the air was pure. She went to see it. The date was the twenty-second of July, and the day was the hottest of the season. At the end of the trolley-line there was a broiling walk in the sun. The editor dragged her weary feet along the dusty road, her eyes on the great brick building she was approaching. Before it a cool lawn sloped down to a protecting hedge. She could see old ladies sitting on benches under trees, and a big lump came into her throat as she thought of her protegee and wondered if at last she had found her a permanent resting-place, if this haven was for her. In the dim reception-room she waited hopefully, but almost the first words of the Sister who finally appeared showed that nothing could be expected from her.

"She was merely repeating all the phrases the editor knew by heart.

The place was 'full to overflowing.' There were 'almost two hundred on the waiting-list.' But, of course, there were other places. She rattled off an impressive list. Every home on it was one the editor had already visited or heard from; there was no room, she knew, in any of them. At her side the Sister uttered sympathetic murmurs. It was, she said, very sad. Then briskly she arose. She was a busy woman, and she had already given this caller more time than she could well spare.

Perhaps the look on the editor's face checked her steps. Uncertainly for a second she hesitated at the threshold. She could do nothing, but--yes, there was still the impulse of hospitality.

"'Would you like to see our new chapel?' she asked, kindly. 'It is just finished, and we are very proud of it.'

"The editor did not really care to see the new chapel. In her depression she would not have cared to see anything. But she was very warm, very tired, utterly discouraged. She wanted a few quiet moments in which to pull herself together, to rest, to think, and to plan. The new chapel would give her these. She followed the Sister to its dim shelter, and, crossing its threshold, knelt in a pew near the door.

Sister Italia, kneeling beside her, suddenly leaned toward her and whispered in her ear.

"'Remember,' she smiled, 'when you pray in a new chapel three prayers are surely answered.'

"The editor returned her smile. Already she was feeling better. The chapel was really beautiful, and its atmosphere was infinitely soothing. Before the altar gleamed one soft light, like a distant star, and like larger stars the rose windows at the right and left seemed to pulse with color. Here and there a black-veiled nun knelt motionless with bowed head. The editor offered two of her prayers: that she might soon find a home for Mrs. Driscoll; that Mrs. Driscoll might be happy and content in the home when she had found it. Then, her eyes still on the distant altar light, her thoughts turned to Mother Elise--at rest in her Roman grave. Here, surely, was a fit setting for thought of her--a convent chapel such as those in which she had spent years of her life. How many vigils she must have had in such a place, how many lonely hours of fasting and of prayer!

"'I wish,' the editor reflected, dreamily, 'I wish I could feel that she is with me in this search for the home. Of course she is--if she knows. I'm sure of that. But _does_ she know? Or is she in some place so inconceivably remote that even the tears and prayers of her helpless old mother have never reached her? I wish I could know that she is watching--that she won't let me make a mistake.'

"She sighed. Close to her Sister Italia stirred, then rose from her knees and led the way from the chapel. The editor followed. At the outer door of the main building Sister Italia asked a question.

"'Did you offer your three prayers?' she wanted to know.

"The editor reflected. 'I offered two,' she said, slowly. Then a sudden memory came to her, and she smiled. 'Why, yes,' she said, 'I offered all three, without realizing it.'"

The Best Seller interrupted. He was an irrepressible person. "It's still too somber," he said. "But I see now how it can be lightened a bit. Take your cue from the musicians. They're playing the Maxixe."

"Hush!" begged the woman with the blue eyes. She turned them on me.

There was an odd mist over their cold brilliance. "Please go on, Miss Iverson," she said, gently.

I glanced at the Best Seller. "I'll lighten it a bit," I promised.

The face of the Best Seller brightened. "Good for you!" he exclaimed, elegantly.

"The editor went home," I resumed. "She was very tired and still very much discouraged. The long, hot ride had dispelled the memory of her moments of peace. As she put her key in the lock of her door the old mother heard the sound and came trotting down the hall to meet her.

She always did that, and usually she had a dozen questions to ask. Was the editor tired? Had she had a hard day? Had it been very hot in her office? But to-night she asked none of these. She came straight to the editor and laid her hands on the other's shoulders; her face held an odd look, apologetic, almost frightened.

"'Oh, my dear,' she quavered. 'I have a confession to make to you. I have been false to a sacred trust.'

"The editor laughed and led her back into the living-room, where she seated her in a big chair by an open window. She did not believe the old lady had ever been false to any trust, and she was very anxious to get out of her working-clothes and into cool garments.

"'I suppose it's something simply appalling,' she said. 'Let me fortify myself for it with a bath and a gla.s.s of lemonade. Then I'll listen to it.'

"But the old lady shook her head. 'No, no,' she gulped. 'I've waited too long already. I _must_ do it now. Oh, listen; _please_ listen!'

"The editor humored her. The old lady was not often unreasonable, and it was clear that she was desperately in earnest. The editor sat down and rested her tired head against the back of her chair while she drew off her gloves.

"'Very well,' she said, 'I'm listening.'

"The old lady began at once. Her words came out with an indescribable effect of breathlessness, as if she could not make her explanation soon enough. She leaned forward, her faded eyes, with their old frightened look, fastened on the editor's face.

"'The day before my daughter died,' she began, almost in a whisper, 'she and I had our last talk. She seemed better. Neither of us thought she was very ill. But she said it was wise when she felt well to discuss a few things. She told me how little money we had and where it was, and she said the Mother Superior had promised to let me stay in the convent if ever I needed a home. Then she took off her ring, the Community ring she had always worn as the symbol of her office, and handed it to me. 'If I go before you,' she ended, 'I want you to send this ring to our friend in New York--our friend the editor.'

"The old woman stopped. In her hand she held something with which her fingers fumbled. Her head drooped.

"'I forgot it,' she confessed, in a whisper the editor strained her ears to catch. 'When she died so suddenly the next day I forgot everything except her going. When I remembered a few months later I did not know how to send the ring to you, so I waited. And when I came to New York those first horrible days in the lodging-house sent everything else out of my mind.' Her head drooped lower. 'You'll forgive me,' she ended.

"She rose and came toward the editor, and the editor rose to face her.

"'Why, my dear,' she began, 'you mustn't give it a second thought. Why should you worry about it?'

"But the old lady interrupted her and went on, as if she had been checked in a recital which she must finish without a break. 'Wait,'

she said. 'To-day, this afternoon, I remembered it! The memory came to me with a kind of shock. I thought, "I have never given her the ring."