The next evening Sappho left Boston. As the train rolled out from the station on its southward journey her heart sank; tears were in her eyes; she felt that now, indeed, all links were severed between her and Will. She had borne up bravely, and now she told herself that she must not give way. She clasped the tender fingers of the boy closer still. He was her anchor. The lady passengers on the train regarded her curiously, she was too beautiful for pity; the men with equal curiosity, but compassion for her youth and beauty mingled with it. When she reached Washington fatigue began to tell upon her—fatigue and hopeless misery. She longed for the journey’s end. Mentally and physically she was overtaxed, and but for the child she would have broken down.
She did not mind anything now. As she moved farther south the brutality of the conductor who ordered her out of the comfortable day-coach into the dirt and discomfort of the “Jim Crow” car, with the remark that “white niggers couldn’t impose on him; he reckoned he knew ’em,” failed to arouse her.
The Sisters of the Holy Family always have representatives at the various railroad stations in New Orleans. These Sisters not only solicit alms, but look out for friendless or unfortunate colored women. As Sappho stepped from the train, holding the child by one hand and her baggage check in the other, a Sister, impelled by something in the white, worn face, stepped up to her and spoke a kindly word of interest. Sappho looked at her and tried to answer, as she placed the check and her purse in the Sister’s hand. The nun put out her arms just in time to receive Sappho’s form as she was sinking insensible upon the platform, her strength at last succumbing to the terrible strain upon mind and body. The nun obtained a carriage and took the two travelers to the convent—the child to the orphanage, the mother to the hospital. So once again Sappho found a refuge in the convent in her time of dire necessity. No one recognized her, for a complete change had been made in the Sisterhood.
A long spell of low fever ensued, but to Sappho in her weakness the rest and comfort that came to her harassed mind was like sun and shade in a grassy glade of perfect peace. The nuns were greatly interested in her, and concluded that she was as good as pretty.
“She is like the angels in the picture of the Crucifixion, so sweet and sad. She has more tears in her heart than in her eyes.”
“She is not of our faith,” said another, “but we will do our best for her, as the Mother says: le bon Dieu knows best.”
It was evening in New Orleans. The streets, the great arteries of a crowded metropolis, were lighted by the glare of myriad gas-lamps, thus dispelling the darkness like artificial suns. The roll of vehicles blended with the other sounds, the hum of millions rising in a confused roar above the housetops and mingling with the clouds of evening.
In a small, bare room Sappho lay, at the end of a long corridor. The rays from a lamp outside the room came faintly in, dispelling the semidarkness. The light from the soft Southern moon gleamed faintly through the windows, making the room like the cloisters of heavenly mansions. To that quiet haven of rest the turmoil and bustle of life did not reach. There the dying, the sick, the convalescent lay undisturbed by the hurrying march of humanity.
She had just sent Alphonse away. Every day he had been allowed to go to her since she had been getting better. It was a rare sight to see the two together—the lovely girl who held the child in such a passionate embrace, and the delight of the child in his “beautiful mamma.”
No questions had been asked her concerning her life or history, but she felt it her duty to make a confidante of the Mother Superior. Tonight she had sent for her, and presently the Mother glided in, with her noiseless step and gentle, assuring manner. The holy woman sat there a long time in silence after listening to Sappho’s story. Such confidences were not new to her. At length she placed a toil-worn brown hand upon the girl’s head with a murmured “Benedicite.”
“What shall I do, Mother?” asked the girl, as she reverently kissed the gentle hand.
“Ah, we must think and pray. You do not wish to become a Sister?”
“No; I must accept the desire of God in the child. I will take a mother’s place and do my duty.”
“It is hard for one so young and beautiful to resist the world and its temptations,” replied the Mother regretfully; “but we will help you, and the convent will be a home for you always.”
Sappho thanked her tearfully.
“My child, I will think over all you have said; I will pray to be shown what it is best to do. Now, go to sleep; rest, and pray to the Holy Mother of Sorrow, and Christ will comfort you.”
She glided noiselessly from the room. Sappho, already comforted by her benign influence, fell asleep.
A month later Sappho had very nearly recovered from the effects of her illness. She moved—a quiet and subdued figure—about the convent corridors, helping in every way. She had written to her aunt, and received an answer saying that she would soon be in the city. The old fortune-teller returned to her home only in time, however, to die at the convent. So Sappho found herself doubly alone in the world.
One day soon after the death of her aunt the Mother Superior sent for her to come to her in her private room—the parlor of the convent.
“My child,” she said, “I have been thinking much about you, and I have tried to benefit you. Are you still determined to pass as the boy’s mother?”
“Yes, Mother, I am.”
“Well, then, you must be
