I have much to say to thee, and
would wish to speak low."
Truly Sister Antony found herself in the seventh heaven!
Yet, quietly observing, the Prioress could not fail to note the drawn
weariness on the old face, the yellow pallor of the wizen skin, which
usually wore the bright tint of a russet apple.
The Prioress took a portion of the broth; then pushed the bowl from
her, and turned to the fruit.
"There, Antony," she said. "The broth is excellent; but I have enough.
Finish it thyself. It will pleasure me to see thee enjoy it."
Faint and thankful, old Antony seized the bowl. And as she drank the
broth, her shrewd eyes twinkled. For had not the Devil said she would
sup on it herself; knowing that much, yet not knowing that she would
receive it from the hand of the Reverend Mother?
It has been ever so, from Eden onwards, when the Devil tries his hand
at prophecy.
For a while the Prioress talked lightly, of flowers and birds; of the
garden and the orchard; of the gift of three fine salmon, sent to them
by the good monks of the Priory at Worcester.
But, presently, when the broth was finished and a faint colour tinted
the old cheeks, she passed on to the storm and the sunset, the rolling
thunder and the torrents of rain. Then of a sudden she said:
"By the way, Antony, hast thou made mention, to any, of thy fearsome
tale of the walking through the cloisters, in line with the White
Ladies, of the Spectre of the saintly Sister Agatha?"
"Nay, Reverend Mother," said Mary Antony.
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