Sister Julienne of the Order of St. Raymond Nonnatus was perplexed. No, "baffled" might be a better word, she thought after some consideration. She sat at her desk thinking, wondering, questioning whether this line of thought was even productive, or healthy. Still, she couldn't help it. Her beloved Sister Bernadette was troubled, and Sister Julienne was at a loss to help her, especially now that physical illness had been added to her distress, and the younger sister was miles away at the sanatorium. Sister Julienne was never one to see too much speculation as particularly valuable, yet here she was, pondering her dear sister's predicament, praying and asking for guidance from the One she was sure knew exactly what was going on. She glanced curiously at the telephone, remembering Sister Bernadette's recent call requesting a visit to the sanatorium. There had been a note of urgency in her voice, behind her usual politeness, and now Sister Julienne was hopeful.

She wouldn't push, she had decided. She would wait for her sister to confess her troubles in her own time, although she sincerely hoped that the phone call meant that, after weeks of waiting, now was the time. Still she recalled how, before the dreadful diagnosis, each day she had seen her dear friend in more obvious pain and confusion. She had seen the blank, confused looks on her face that appeared when she believed nobody was watching. She had heard Sister Monica Joan's misguided but well-meaning pronouncement. She had witnessed her sister's anguished declaration of her own inability to discern her problem. She had observed how her sister had looked up from her prayer book in the chapel, in a silent appeal for some kind of answer. But what was the question?

She had tried to help in ways she wasn't sure were obvious. First, she prayed, hoping her sister would find respite and relief of her worries, whatever they were. There was also the work. Every opportunity that arose to give Sister Bernadette more meaningful work, she took. Sister Julienne relaxed in her chair, thinking of the week when she'd noticed her sister looking particularly lost in chapel, and she'd taken the opportunity to go on a call out of town and leave Sister Bernadette in charge, hoping the extra work would do her good, and that meeting at County Hall with Dr. Turner would give her a cause to fight for. That did seem to work, at least temporarily. But the van came, and then it was gone, only to be replaced by a new, more terrible trouble.

What would make such a devoted nun so confused, she wondered. There were two reasons she could think of. One was loss of faith, and the other was temptation. She doubted it was the former, but the latter didn't seem to fit, either. She herself was well acquainted with temptation, and particularly with the temptation of love. Glancing over at her worn copy of Revelations of Divine Love, safely cocooned between other volumes on her bookshelf, she thought of a photograph-a young woman named Louise and her handsome Charles. Many years ago that was, and the pain had dulled over the years, but it had never entirely disappeared. Still, that couldn't be the answer for Sister Bernadette. Her young sister couldn't be in love. She had been well versed with her schedule, and there would have been no time. Besides, how many men had she even seen on a regular basis, aside from expectant fathers? She sighed. Love didn't require a variety of men, she told herself. It required just one, if he was the right one. But who could this be for Sister Bernadette, if anyone at all?

She opened her logbook to record the appointment at the sanatorium, turning through the pages and trying to clear her mind. She was just about to dismiss this train of thought entirely, until she remembered. A careworn face came to mind, full of exhaustion and something else she couldn't place, on the day he had returned from dropping her sister off at the sanatorium. It was a weariness beyond mere concern, as he had reported to her of the X-ray results and the projected prognosis. The disease had been caught early and the doctors were optimistic, he had told her in a relieved but still worried tone—a tone she hadn't heard him use when talking about other patients. This seemed much more personal.

Then, there was another memory. An examination. Sister Julienne had stood by as he took his utmost care, examining the obviously stunned young sister who occasionally cast a glance at her mentor, but wouldn't look the doctor in the eyes. Her face was mostly downcast, while his had been resolute, conducting the examination with a level of care Sister Julienne had never seen before. Always the consummate professional, the doctor's exams had usually been gentle, but somewhat brisk. In this case, it was as if his patient had been made of fine crystal or porcelain, as if he thought too rough of an approach would cause her to crack, or shatter. He conducted his examination with a measured precision that could almost be viewed as tenderness. Sister Julienne had only watched, assuming the extra care was because the sister was obviously frightened, and the doctor was their dear friend.

Dr. Turner. She shouldn't be thinking this way, but for some reason she couldn't dismiss it. This was a good man. An honorable man, dedicated to his profession. A gifted, compassionate physician, wearied from the cares of life and the burdens of single fatherhood after the loss of his wife. The sisters had prayed for him weekly, asking God to ease his pain and lighten his burdens. She remembered Sister Bernadette's bond with his young son, Timothy, and the lovely picture the boy had drawn for the sister. She remembered the doctor's face as he handed her the picture to deliver—a smile, but not a full smile, with almost the faintest trace of, what? Regret, perhaps? And then there was her sister, with her occasional blank, thoughtful stares that weren't always as blank as she had thought. Perhaps that was what had given her pause when, on the day of the x-rays, the doctor had asked to see Sister Bernadette in private. Tuberculosis had actually been the last thing on Sister Julienne's mind when he had asked that question. That day, she hadn't been sure what had made her so uneasy about that request, but thinking about it now, she had seen a few glances the young sister had cast in the doctor's direction when she hadn't known anyone was looking, on clinic days, at the Nonnatus dinner table the few times the doctor would stop by to deliver news. They could have meant anything, and he could have just been conveniently in the way while the sister had been lost in thought, or looking at something else. Or perhaps they truly meant what the older sister found herself hoping they hadn't meant.

All right, now she had to abandon this line of thought. It was no use speculating when the answer could very well be something else entirely. Still, these memories had not been invented. They were real, and they did make her think. She would put them out of her mind for now, she resolved. She would be there for her sister, and allow Sister Bernadette to let her know what the trouble was. Sister Julienne found her pen and carefully wrote the time and date in her logbook. Just a short time, she hoped, and she would know how better to help her dear sister. Now, she closed the book, put down the pen and rose from her chair. The time for reflection was over for now. There was work to be done.