This fall, however, the Superior of the Order had been adamant, initiating several meetings with Mary Helen. When Mary Helen had told Eileen about the meetings, her friend had christened them “Leisure Lectures.” Secretly, Mary Helen referred to them as “Senility Sessions.”

“It’s time you slowed down,” the Superior had said. “Why not return to the fountainhead? Move up to the college. Relax, Rest. You’ve an M.A. in history you have never really used. If you must do something, do some research.”

Well, here you are, old girl-Mary Helen watched a solitary freighter pass behind a miniature Ferry Building-one of the drips returned to the fountainhead. And nothing would do, she scolded herself, but to inflict yourself on a history department chairman who probably thinks your old M.A. and all those years of eighth-grade teaching have prepared you for nothing at all. This afternoon, however, it was too hot to do anything but rest and relax. Tomorrow, weather permitting, she’d worry about Professor Villanueva and research.

Opening her P.D. James, she flipped back the marking ribbon of her prayer-book cover. This spot was so secluded, so cool and quiet. She must remember its existence. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply. Against the silence she heard the muted city traffic, the faraway echo of a girl’s shrill laugh. Gradually, she began to notice another sound-a rhythmic scraping she couldn’t identify.

Eyes still closed, she cocked her head and tried to concentrate. What on earth was it? First a crunch, then a pause, then a plop. Crunch, pause, plop. Over and over. The rhythm never changed.