"Sister Roberga, oblige me by speaking when you are spoken to," said Mother Ada, in her icicle manner.

"There is only one will do again," answered Mother Gaillarde. "Saint Raphael is tolerable; he might serve. But I know the Archangel Michael had one of his wings broken; and the Apostle Saint Peter lost a leg."

"We had a lovely Satan among those Easter figures," said Sister Ismania; "and Saint John was so charming, I never saw his equal."

"Satan may do again if he gets a new tail," said Mother Gaillarde. "But Pontius Pilate won't; that careless Sister Jacoba let him drop, and he was mashed all to pieces."

"Your pardon, Mother, but that was Judas Iscariot."

"It wasn't: it was Pontius Pilate."

"I am sure it was Judas."

"I tell you it wasn't."

"But, Mother, I--"

"Hold your tongue!" said Mother Gaillarde, curtly.

And being bidden by her superior, of course Sister Ismania had to obey.

I looked across at Margaret, and met her eyes. And, as Margaret's eyes always do, they spoke.

"These are holy women, and this is spiritual love!" said Margaret's eyes, ironically. "We might have spoken thus to our own brethren, without going into a convent to do it."

I wonder if Margaret be not right, and we bring the world in with us: that it is something inside ourselves. But then, I suppose, outside there are more temptations. Yet do we not, each of us, make a world for herself? Is it not _ourselves_ that we ought to renounce--the earthliness and covetousness of our own desires, rather than the mere outside things? Oh, I do get so tired when I keep thinking!

Yesterday, when Erneburg and Damia were playing at see-saw in the garden, with a long plank balanced on the saddling-stone, I could not help wondering how it is that one's thoughts play in that way. Each end seems sometimes up, and then the other end comes up, and that goes down.

I wish I were wiser, and understood more. Perchance it was better for me that I was sent here. For I never should have been wise or brilliant. And suppose _he_ were, and that he had looked down upon me and disliked me for it! That would have been harder to bear than this.

_Ha, chetife_! have all religious women such stories as we two? Did Mother Ada ever feel a heart in her? Mother Gaillarde does at times, I believe. As to my Lady, I doubt any such thing of her. She seems to live but to eat and sleep, and if Mother Gaillarde had not more care to govern the house than she, I do--Mother of Mercy, but this is evil speaking, and of my superiors too! _Miserere me, Domine_!

As we filed out of the oratory last night as usual, Mother Gaillarde stayed me at the door.

"Sister Annora, thou art appointed to the Infirmary to-night." And in a lower tone she added--"It will be the last time."

I knew well what last time she meant: never again in life should I see our dear Mother Alianora. I looked up thankfully.

"Well?" said Mother Gaillarde, in her curt way. "Are you a stone image, or do you think I'm one?"

I kissed her hand, made the holy sign, and pa.s.sed on. No, dear Mother: thou art not a stone.

In the Infirmary I found Sister Philippa on duty.

"O Sister Annora, I am so glad thou art come! I hate this sort of work, and Mother Gaillarde will keep me at it. I believe it is because she knows I detest it."

"Thou art not just to Mother Gaillarde, Sister," I said, and went on to the bed by the window.

"Annora, dear child!" said the feeble voice. Ay, she was weaker far than when I last beheld her, "Thank G.o.d I have seen thee yet once more."

I could do little for her--only now and then give her to drink, or raise her a little. And she could not speak much. A few words occasionally appeared to be all she had strength for. Towards morning I thought she seemed to wander and grow light-headed. She called once "Isabel!" and once "Aveline!" We have at present no Sister in the house named Aveline, and when I asked if I should seek permission to call Sister Isabel if she wished for her, she said, "No: she will be gone to Marlborough," and what she meant I know not. [Note 1.] Then, after she had lain still a while, she said, "Guendolen--is it thou?"

"No, dearest Mother; it is Sister Annora," said I.

"Guendolen was here," saith she: "where is she?"

"Perhaps she will come again," I answered, for I saw that she scarcely had her wits clear.

"She will come again," she saith, softly. "Ay, He will come again--with clouds--and His saints with Him. And Guendolen will be there--my Sister Guendolen, the Princess [Note 2], whom men cast forth,--Christ shall crown her in His kingdom. The last of the royal line! There are no Princes of Wales any more."

Then I think she dropped asleep for a time, and when she woke she knew me at first; though she soon grew confused again.

"Christ's blessing and mine be on thee, mine own Annora!" saith she, tenderly. "Margaret, too--poor Magot! Tell her--tell her--" but her voice died away in indistinct murmurs. "They will soon be here."

"Who, dearest Mother?"

"Joan and Guendolen. Gladys, perchance. I don't know about Gladys.

White--all in white: no black in that habit. And they sing--No, she never sang on earth. I should like to hear Guendolen sing in Heaven."

The soft toll of the bell for prime came to her dulled ear.

"Are they ringing in Heaven?" she said. "Is it Guendolen that rings?

The bells never rang for her below. They have fairer music up there."

The door opened, and Mother Ada looked in.

"Sister Annora, you are released. Come to prime."

Oh, to have tarried only a minute! For a light which never was from sun or moon had broken over the dying face, and she vainly tried to stretch her hands forth with a rapturous cry of--"Guendolen! Did the Master send thee for me?"

"Sister! You forget yourself," said Mother Ada, when I lingered.

"Remember the rule of holy obedience!"

I suppose it was very wicked of me--I am always doing wicked things--but I did wish that holy obedience had been at the bottom of the Red Sea, I kissed the trembling hand of the dear old Mother, and signed the holy cross upon her brow to protect her when she was left alone, and then I followed Mother Ada. After prime I was ordered to the work-room. I looked round, and saw that Sister Roberga and Margaret were missing. I did hope Margaret, and not Sister Roberga, had been sent up to the Infirmary. Of course I could not ask.

For two hours I sewed with my heart in the Infirmary. If the rule of holy obedience had been at the bottom of the Red Sea, I am sure I should not have tarried in that work-room another minute. And then I heard the pa.s.sing bell. It struck so cold to my heart that I had hard work to keep my broidering in a straight line.

A few minutes later, Margaret appeared at the door. She knelt down in the doorway, and made the sign of the cross, saying, "Peace eternal grant to us, O Lord!"

And we all responded, led by Mother Ada,--"Lord, grant to Thy servant our Sister everlasting peace!"

So then I knew that Mother Alianora had been sent for by the Master of us all.

"Sister Margaret!" said Mother Ada.

Margaret rose, went up to Mother Ada, and knelt again.

"How comes it thou art the messenger? I sent Sister Roberga to the Infirmary this morning."