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only one thing to be done, and by a quick jerk of her head the Mother Superiorauthorized it. They were older women, she and Antonia, but they were as strong as most men; they had spent their lives lifting and turning and hauling and tending. Antonia went to the other side of the bed; and she and Dorothea Luke, moving as one, threw their bodies with full strength upon Jane’s, holding her thighs tight together in a grip that even the frenzy of birth would not be able to loose.
    â€œNow,” said the Mother Superior, she, too, panting with effort, “now, my child, we will explain to you. And you will listen to us, because we will hold you, exactly like this, until you do. We ask your forgiveness, Jane, for what will seem to you to be cruelty—we are not cruel, dear child, we are doing what we must do if you are not to spend all eternity in the depths of Hell.” And she and Antonia together, never for an instant weakening the hold they had on Jane and on the infant struggling to come into the world, began murmuring the appropriate verses of Genesis. Tenderly, with infinite love, they explained the case to Jane.
    She did scream, before they were through. She screamed quite satisfactorily, bringing smiles of relief and gratitude to the faces of both the women tending her, before it was over.
    The other nuns had no respect for little Sister Carapace, and she knew that. She was so low in their estimation that she had nothing to lose; it was an attitude she went to great pains to cultivate in them. It was Carapace who came into the cellar room that afternoon, when the dusk had begun to fall and it was easy to tuck a newborn infant into the bottom of a basket and spread a light cloth over it to hide the nature of her burden. She went through the door, and she locked it behind her, which was strictly forbidden; if she were caught, if she were asked why she had done that, she would say that she had been confused, and she would be believed. She was only silly Sister Carapace, almost always confused.
    She went over to the narrow bed, where the young woman lay with huge eyes in an ashen face, staring at the ceiling in the way that victims of any torture do stare, and she reached out to gather the rigid body into her arms. When Jane resisted, Carapace was prepared for that; she reached into the deepest pocket of her skirt and took out a small wreath of wild vines no bigger than her palm, and she laid it in the other woman’s hand. She waited until the tormented face cleared, and understanding showed in the eyes, and then she tried again. “Dear child,” she said softly, and kissed her forehead, and this time the girl came to herwillingly and let herself be comforted. Carapace set two plump pillows behind Jane’s back and helped her to sit up on them, and smoothed her wet hair. And then she took the infant from the basket on the floor and put it to its mother’s breast and saw the tiny mouth first fumble and then grip tightly on the nipple.
    No milk there yet, of course, but substances necessary to the well-being of this baby, made by the mother’s body through the infinite generosity of the Blessed Lord. It never ceased to astonish Carapace—that generosity, embodied in women. Every month for most of her life, a woman’s body prepared wholesome life-sustaining food. In abundance, always made new each four weeks, just in case. Just in case! In case some child, male or female, might have need of it. It was a miracle, though it was a miracle a woman was obliged to hide away as if it were a mark of shame instead of a mark of God’s grace. And then there were these substances of birth, first the colostrum with its powerful medicines against illness, and then the good pure milk . . . more miracles! It was just such miracles that had drawn Carapace into the Sisters Of Genesis and sustained her through the rigors of its novitiate, in spite of every obstacle placed before her; and when she found