half past six in the morning
I can not say . But in either case I try in vain to see how he could have thought he had a right , caring nothing for me , to tear me from the mother who loved me and had paid for me so dear ; or how he could have believed that because he was my father , charged with the care of my poor little body , he had control over the little bleeding heart which was not his to make to suffer . He is my father -- God help me to think the best of him . At half past six in the morning I was awakened by the loud ringing of the getting-up bell , and as soon as I could rouse myself from the deep sleep of childhood I saw that a middle-aged nun with a severe face was saying a prayer , and that all the girls in the dormitory were kneeling in their beds while they made the responses . A few minutes later , when the girls were chattering and laughing as they dressed , making the room tingle with twittering sounds like a tree full of linnets in the spring , a big girl came up to me and said : `` I am Mildred Bankes and Sister Angela says I am to look after you to-day . '' She was about fifteen years of age , and had a long plain-featured face which reminded me of one of my father 's horses that was badly used by the farm boys ; but there was something sweet in her smile that made me like her instantly . She helped me to dress in my brown velvet frock , but said that one of her first duties would be to take me to the lay sisters who made the black habits which all the girls in the convent wore .