In this expectation we set out in search of a Maternity Home. What a day
of trial we had! I shall never forget it.
The first home we called at was a Catholic one in the neighbourhood of
our boarding-house.
It had the appearance of a convent, and that pleased me exceedingly.
After we had passed the broad street door, with its large brass plate
and small brass grille, we were shown into a little waiting-room with
tiled floor, distempered walls, and coloured pictures of the saints.
The porteress told us the Mother was at prayers with the inmates, but
would come downstairs presently, and while we waited we heard the dull
hum of voices, the playing of an organ, and the singing of the sweet
music I knew so well.
Closing my eyes I felt myself back in Rome, and began to pray that I
might be permitted to remain there. But the desire was damped when the
Mother entered the room.
She was a stout woman, wearing heavy outdoor boots and carrying her arms
interlaced before her, with the hands hidden in the ample sleeves of her
habit, and her face was so white and expressionless, that it might have
been cast in plaster of Paris.
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