Alma did not return to us at dinner, or at recreation, or at chapel
(when another chaplain said vespers), or even at nine o'clock, when we
went to bed. But next morning, almost as soon as the Mother of the
Novices had left the dormitory, she burst into the room saying:
"I'm leaving this silly old convent, girls. Mother has brought the
carriage, and I've only come to gather up my belongings."
Nobody spoke, and while she wrapped up her brushes and combs in her
nightdress, she joked about Sister Angela and Father Giovanni and then
about Mildred Bankes, whom she called "Reverend Mother Mildred," saying
it would be her turn next.
Then she tipped up her mattress, and taking a novel from under it she
threw the book on to my bed, saying:
"Margaret Mary will have to be your story-teller now. By-by, girls!"
Nobody laughed. For the first time Alma's humour had failed her, and
when we went downstairs to the Meeting Room it was with sedate and quiet
steps.
The nuns were all there, with their rosaries and crosses, looking as
calm as if nothing had occurred, but the girls were thinking of Alma,
and when, after prayers, during the five minutes of silence for
meditation, we heard the wheels of a carriage going off outside, we knew
what had happened--Alma had gone.
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