"The spirit is
willing I know, but, in your case, the knee-joints are weak. But no
wonder, for they have done you long service. Why, I get up slowly from
kneeling, yet my knees are thirty years younger than yours. . . . Nay
I will not mount to the Reverend Mother's chamber until you acquaint
her of my arrival. Take me round to the garden, and there let me wait
in the shade, while you seek her."
Greatly elated at the success of her effort, and emboldened by his
charming condescension, Mary Antony led the Bishop through the
rose-arch; and, casting a furtive glance at his face from behind the
curtain of her veil, ventured to hope there was naught afoot which
could bring trouble or care to the Reverend Mother.
Mary Antony was trotting beside the Bishop, down the long walk between
the yew hedges, when she gave vent to this anxious question.
At once the Bishop slackened speed.
"Not so fast, Sister Antony," he said. "I pray you to remember mine
age, and to moderate your pace. Why should you expect trouble or
anxiety for the Reverend Mother?"
"Nay," said Mary Antony, "I expect naught; I saw naught; I heard
naught! 'Twas all mine own mistake, counting with my peas. I told the
Reverend Mother so, and set her mind at rest by carrying up _six_ peas,
saying that I had found _six_ and not _five_ in my wallet."
"Let us pause," said the Bishop, "and look at this lily. How lovely
are its petals. How tall and white it shews against the hedge.
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