I could not talk of Pickering with Bates—the masked beggar !—in the room, so I changed the subject.

“I suppose you impose penances, prescribe discipline for the girls at St. Agatha’s,—an agreeable exercise of the priestly office, I should say !”

His laugh was pleasant and rang true. I was liking him better the more I saw of him.

“Bless you, no ! I am not venerable enough. The Sisters attend to all that,—and a fine company of women they are !”

“But there must be obstinate cases. One of the young ladies confided to me—I tell you this in cloistral confidence—that she was being deported for insubordination.”

“Ah, that must be Olivia! Well, her case is different. She is not one girl,—she is many kinds of a girl in one. I fear Sister Theresa lost her patience and hardened her heart.”

“I should like to intercede for Miss Armstrong,” I declared.

The surprise showed in his face, and I added:

“Pray don’t misunderstand me. We met under rather curious circumstances, Miss Armstrong and I.”

“She is usually met under rather unconventional circumstances, I believe,” he remarked dryly. “My introduction to her came through the kitten she smuggled into the alms box of the chapel. It took me two days to find it.”

He smiled ruefully at the recollection.

“She’s a young woman of spirit,” I declared defensively. “She simply must find an outlet for the joy of youth, paddling a canoe, chasing rabbits through the snow, placing kittens in durance vile. But she’s demure enough when she pleases,—and a satisfaction to the eye.”

My heart warmed at the memory of Olivia. Verily the chaplain was right—she was many girls in one!

Stoddard dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee.

“Miss Devereux begged hard for her, but Sister Theresa couldn’t afford to keep her. Her influence on the other girls was bad.”

“That’s to Miss Devereux’s credit,” I replied. “You needn’t wait, Bates.”

“Olivia was too popular. All the other girls indulged her. And I’ll concede that she’s pretty. That gipsy face of hers bodes ill to the hearts of men—if she ever grows up.”

“I shouldn’t exactly call it a gipsy face; and how much more should you expect her to grow? At twenty a woman’s grown, isn’t she ?”

He looked at me quizzically.

“Fifteen, you mean ! Olivia Armstrong—that little witch—the kid that has kept the school in turmoil all the fall?”

There was decided emphasis in his interrogations.

“I’m glad your glasses are full, or I should say—”

There was, I think, a little heat for a moment on both sides.