“We call this St. Peter’s path,” Mother Philippa said placidly, “and for his feast the novices put up his statue in the summer-house and decorate it with flowers. They always come here for their mid-day recreation.”
“Your garden is quite lovely, Mother Philippa; I remember it all so well.”
They wandered on, past the apple and plum trees laden with fruit—they made a pretty orchard in one corner; and while the nun passed here and there gathering flowers, Evelyn stood gazing, recalling all her girlish impressions. Almost every turn in the walks recalled some innocent aspiration, some girlish feeling of love and reverence. In every nook there was a statue of the Virgin, or a cross whereby the thoughts of the passer-by might be recalled to the essential object of her life. She remembered how
