"
"Reverend Mother," said the old lay-sister, in a voice which strove to
be steady, yet quavered; "for long hours you have studied, not heeding
that the evening meal was over. Chide not old Antony for bringing you
some of that broth, which you like the best. You will not sleep unless
you eat."
The Prioress looked at her uncomprehendingly; as if, for the moment,
words conveyed no meaning to her mind. Then she saw those old hands
trembling, and a sudden flood of colour flushed the pallor of her face.
This sweet stirring of fresh life within her own heart gave her to see,
in the old woman's untiring devotion, a human element hitherto
unperceived. It brought a rush of comfort, in her sadness.
She closed the volume, and pushed aside the parchment. "How kind of
thee, dear Antony, to take so much thought for me. Place the bowls on
the table. . . . Now draw up that stool, and stay near me while I sup.
I am weary this night, and shall like thy company."
Had the golden gates of heaven opened before her, and Saint Peter
himself invited her to enter, Sister Mary Antony would not have been
more astonished and certainly could hardly have been more gratified.
It was a thing undreamed of, that she should be bidden to sit with the
Reverend Mother in her cell.
Drawing the carven stool two feet from the wall, Mary Antony took her
seat upon it.
"Nearer, Antony, nearer," said the Prioress. "Place the stool here,
close beside the corner of my table.
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