The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. Men were going hither and thither with barrows, and ladders and ropes, removing the rubbish, and trying to support the tottering habitations. Ennison started and looked anxiously at Anna. Taking hold of the hilt of his own foil, he drew it forth. Her glasses moved quickly as her glance travelled from face to face. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. There was nothing to be learned from her face. Before there is any change, any real change, I shall be dead—dead—dead and finished—two hundred years!. She looked at him mournfully. He had died before they married, and when her brother became a widower she had come to his assistance and taken over much of the care of his youngest daughter.
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