When Dominica had gone off, Ruby and I followed Maggie down a gravel path that led past a statue of St. Francis, through a small oak grove, and across a grassy meadow bordered with weeping willows and cottonwoods. At the foot of the meadow I could see the Yucca River, a broad band of rippling silver glinting in the pale afternoon sun, and on the other side, the high south bank, a spectacular cliff festooned with ferns and rimmed with cedar trees. It was as lovely as a garden.

"The Townsend Ranch boundary runs along up there," Maggie said, pointing to the top of the cliff. She pulled her jacket closer around her and pointed in the other direction. "And that's the garlic field."

The expanse of rich brown soil, perhaps five or six acres, was sliced lengthwise by furrows of blue-green spikes, already a foot high. St. Theresa's famous rocambole, preparing to fling itself into another growing season.

It might be the last, if Dominica was right about the order's plans. St. T's had the beauty of a remote paradise, but it could be reached from either coast in a matter of hours. It also had a treasure chest fat enough to finance whatever the Reverend Mother General wanted in the way of a plush retreat center-if the Laney Foundation Board could be coerced into going along with the scheme. Not to mention an abbess-in-waiting who was eager to get started. Give Sister Olivia the go-ahead and three years to construct a small but luxurious residence and visitor center, a spa, golf course, and tennis courts, and every American bishop would be packing his golf clubs for a leisurely visit. Give her five years, a decent golf pro, and plenty of rain on the greens, and the entire Vatican would be here.

But all that development would cost something-and not

just money, either. I could imagine what this lovely place would look like in ten years. The garlic field would be gone, the flat, rich earth paved over for tennis courts and parking. The picturesque red barn would be replaced by an auditorium, chapel, and conference rooms, and the visitor residence would fill the meadow we were crossing. And the sisters could forget about their contemplative life. They'd be so busy tending prelates they wouldn't have time to pray.

I was considering this sad scenario when we turned a corner and were nearly run down by a wheelbarrow loaded with filled seed trays. Behind it was Sister Gabriella, moving with a fierce energy that suggested she hadn't quite forgiven Sister Olivia for whatever had sparked their argument.

"Whoops, sorry!" She dropped the wheelbarrow with a thud and pushed her windblown dark hair out of her eyes. "I should have been looking where I was-" Her tanned face broke into a smile. "Margaret Mary, bless you!" she exclaimed. "It's good to see you!"

Gabriella enveloped Maggie in a warm embrace, then turned to Ruby and me. As Maggie introduced us, she held out a dirty, garden-worn hand, her nails every bit as unspeakable as mine. I saw that her dark hair was liberally streaked with gray, and revised my estimate of her age. She was probably closer to sixty than fifty.

"When you get a little time," she said to me, "drop by my office in Jacob and let me give you a tour of our garlic operation." She paused, eyeing me. "Unless of course you're here to get away from herbs, in which case you probably don't want-"

"No," I said hastily. "It's the pressure I'm trying to get away from, Sister, not the plants."

Her grin was infectious. ' 'Lord knows, we all need to go over the wall every so often."

"You're questioning your vocation?" Maggie asked teasingly.

Gabriella's weathered face grew serious. "Only a fool doesn't question her vocation-minute by minute. And God's got plenty of fools. She doesn't need another one." She picked up the wheelbarrow handles, nodded a cheerful good-bye, and started up the path. As she went around the corner, she began whistling, "We're Off to See the Wizard."

We went in the other direction. As we walked, Ruby said, "Why in heaven's name don't the St. Agatha sisters vote for her!"

"It's the vow of obedience," Maggie said. "Until a few years ago, novices were taught to obey their superiors whether they agreed with them or not. When you're trained to obey, questioning authority feels like you're questioning God. The St. Agatha sisters, especially the older ones, wouldn't even consider voting for anybody but Olivia." She paused. "And they're all older, come to think of it. When I was there a few years ago, I don't think I saw anybody younger than fifty."

We had reached a small cottage. Maggie was raising her hand to knock at the door when it was flung open wide by a tiny, stooped woman in a white blouse and trim navy slacks, less than five feet tall. Her darting eyes were an electric blue, and she had flyaway white hair and an elvish face. She welcomed Maggie like a long-lost daughter, and greeted Ruby and me with enthusiasm.

"Please, come in and sit down, all of you," she said, ushering us into the warm, cozy room. "Did you have an uneventful trip?"

"Actually, it was full of events," Maggie said wryly, and told her about our accident.

"We were lucky," Ruby said. "If the car had gone over, we might have been pretty badly hurt. Believe me, I was awfully glad to see your handyman."

"It was providential that Dwight came along when he did," Mother replied. She went to a hot plate and took off

a steaming kettle. ' 'You need a nice cup of peppermint tea to settle your nerves."

In a moment, Mother Winifred had poured our tea and settled us at a table in front of an uncurtained casement window which looked out over a square expanse of stonewalled garden. In the middle was a large circular bed, centered with a stone statue of Mary and divided into pie-shaped wedges by red bricks. Gardens are subdued in winter, but this one was still lovely. I could see the layered mounds of santolina, the silvery velvet of lamb's ears, and the stiff gray-green of lavender bushes, striking against the ferny green of tansy and yarrow and the feathery leaves of southernwood. And there was blue-green rue, a lively companion to a large potted rosemary that had been expertly trained into a neat, conical topiary. Nearby were several other untrimmed rosemaries, exuberantly green against the stone wall. In this part of Texas, they'd likely make it through the winter outdoors. Much farther north or west, it was another story.

"A pity the wind is so chilly today," Mother Winifred remarked. "Perhaps tomorrow it will be comfortable enough to walk in the garden." She looked out the window. "It looks a bit bleak now, but in the summer, it is really quite beautiful."

"Even in the winter," I said. "The design is classic."

The walled square contained five gardens, one in each corner and one in the middle. The corner to the right was the kitchen garden, bordered by mounds of thyme, with clumps of marjoram and parsley and sage in the center and a handsome rosemary at the back. One of the back corners was a fragrance garden, with old roses climbing against the stone wall. The other was a dyers' garden, with teasel- not a dye plant, actually, but used by weavers to tease fibers-and madder and woad, a sprawling, noxious weed that has to be carefully contained.

"The apothecary garden interests me most." Mother Winifred pointed to the fourth corner. "We have quite a

few medicinals. Peppermint for an upset stomach, catnip and chamomile for a sound sleep. As well as sage, foxglove, rue, comfrey, pennyroyal, feverfew-"

"Mother also has a stillroom," Maggie said. "That's where the sisters make salves and lotions."

"A growing number are interested in herbal medicines," Mother Winifred said. "I try to keep up on current research, and several of the sisters enjoy trying out old recipes. We have quite an extensive shelf of reference books, if you'd care to see them."