At six in the morning, Sister Joan awakened for the morning meal, on her way down the hall she passed Father St. Moritz’s bedroom, she saw his door was opened and the light was still on; this was not an unusual time for him to be stirring.
Sister Joan stopped inside the doorway, their Father St. Moritz was in the midst of turning his bookshelf upright. “Father, what are you doing rearranging your furniture at such an early hour?” Sister Joan asked. “I’m not so much rearranging it, as I am putting it back the way it was.” John replied. Sister Joan stepped further into the room, this time getting a full view of the terrible mess which was John’s room, she immediately cupped her hands over her mouth in astonishment. “My word, Father, what has happened to your room?” She gasped. “The truth is, Sister, I haven’t the slightest clue how this happened. When I arrived home from my grandmother’s wake, it looked this way, it took me all night just to make it look half as good.” John replied. His room was still a disaster area, John just hoped he could at least have it looking presentable before Father McFlannery awakened this morning.
“I wouldn’t fret about that for now, Father, let’s go and have breakfast and afterwards you can catch up on your cleaning.” Sister Joan chuckled. “But what about Father McFlannery, won’t he be upset?” John asked. “Father McFlannery is all the way down the corridor, if you don’t say anything, then neither will I, now come downstairs and have some breakfast.” Sister Joan said.
When the dinning room, Father St. Moritz took his usual seat at the table, he noticed Father McFlannery had not come down yet for the morning meal; it was only himself and Sister Joan for the moment. John saw this as the perfect opportunity to ask Sister Joan about Sister Gertrude’s death.
Sister Joan suddenly came running out of the kitchen, flailing her arms. In a mad frenzy, she hurried to the hutch and scrambled to take out the dishes, she didn’t realize until she saw John, that the table wasn’t set, or for that matter breakfast wasn’t even prepared. “John, could please set the table?” She ordered the young vicar. “Is something wrong, Sister Joan?” He asked while taking the dishes from her. “Well this morning when I came down for breakfast, I suddenly realized . . . I don’t make breakfast, that was Sister Gertrude’s station.” Both of them glanced over at the empty chair on the other side of the table. “It’s going to take some time getting used to, not having her around; what was it she died of?” John tenderly sighed.
“It was her heart, Sisters Gertrude’s heart just merely stopped beating.” She sadly explained. “I know this sounds silly, but she reminded me of my grandmother, but certainly a better one than mine.” John assured her. Suddenly he was caught off guard by a hideous odor, and it was coming from the kitchen. “Do you smell that, Sister Joan? It smells like something is burning.” He asked. Sister Joan’s nose perked up where she stood. “My word, John, it’s the breakfast!” Both Sister Joan and Father St. Moritz ran into the kitchen.