"So no more of that, my Antony; though, truth to tell, thy story gives
me relief, answering a question I was meaning to put to thee. I heard,
not an hour ago, that Sister Antony had boasted that with a turn of her
thumb and finger she could, any night, send Mother Sub-Prioress to
Purgatory."
"Who said that of me?" stuttered Mary Antony. "Who said it, Reverend
Mother?"
"A little bird," murmured the Prioress. "A little bird, dear Antony;
but not thy pretty robin. Also, the boast was taken to mean poison in
the broth of Mother Sub-Prioress. Hast thou ever put harmful things in
the broth of Mother Sub-Prioress?"
Mary Antony slipped to her knees.
"Only beans, Reverend Mother, castor beans; and, when her temper was
vilest, purging herbs. Nothing more, I swear it! Old Antony knows
naught of poisons; only of mixing balsams--ah, ha!--and soothing
ointments! Our blessed Lady knows the tale is false."
Hastily the Prioress lifted the nosegay and buried her face in bindweed
and dandelions.
"I believe thee," she said, in a voice not over steady. "Rise from thy
knees. But, remember, I forbid thee to put aught into Mother
Sub-Prioress's broth, save things that soothe and comfort. Give me
thy word for this, Antony."
The old woman humbly lifted the hem of the Prioress's robe, and pressed
it to her lips.
"I promise, Reverend Mother," she said, "and I do repent me of my sin."
"Sit beside me," commanded the Prioress.
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