Saint Ernesta and the Imp
Imp lay. Had there ever been before such sweet and restful slumber? Nestled cosily in her cot was Mercedes, her long, black lashes resting on her olive cheeks, her dainty hands sweetly clasped outside of the cover, the counterpane rising and falling with her regular breathing. The nuns were not touched by this spectacle of helpless innocence further than to look at each other, baffled. They dared not wake the child, yet who but she could have done this thing? They stole silently away.
The next morning the Imp, decorously intent upon her task in the class-room, was summoned into the presence of the directors. Even her dauntless spirit quailed when she faced the three nuns who sat awaiting her—a solemn conclave, called together only for cases of paramount importance. It was by no means the Imp's first appearance before them, but that reflection did not cheer her. She shot one keen glance at them out of her black eyes, then fastened those eyes upon the floor, and fell back upon her strongest defence, absolute silence. Not a question would she answer, not a word would she say. They accused, they pleaded, they reasoned—all in vain. Mercedes was silent. Several times before she had taken this stand. In one surprising case she was after-
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