"
"But there'll be other mountains."
"Yes, other mountains."
"Think of the mountains of Italy."
"Oh, I do. When the waves of regret and homesickness come I cheer myself
with thoughts of Italy. Ever since I can remember, I've wanted Italy;
ever since I began to study history and look at maps, and even to read
the lives of the saints, I've cared more about Italy than any other
country. When I expected to spend all my life in a convent, I used to
think that maybe I could go to the mother-house in Italy for a while
some day. You can't realize, Peter--you, who have lived in warm
countries--how I've pined for warmth. I've _never_ been warm enough,
never in my life, for more than a few hours together. Even in summer
it's never really hot here, never hot with the glorious burning heat of
the sun that I long to feel. How I do want to be warm, all through my
veins. I've wanted it always. Even at the most sacred hours, when I
ought to have forgotten that I had a body, I've shivered and yearned to
be warm--warm to the heart. I shall go to Italy and bask in the sun."
"Marie used to say that, too, that she wanted to be warm," Peter
murmured in an odd, hesitating, shamefaced way. And she looked at the
novice intently, as she had looked before. Mary's white cheeks were
faintly stained with rose, and her eyes dilated. Peter had never seen
quite the same expression on her face, or heard quite the same ring in
her voice. The girl felt that the different, unknown self she had
spoken of was beginning already to waken and stir in the nun's soul.
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