But the old nun never left her room again, and Evelyn’s last memory of her in the garden was when they had sat by the fish-pond, looking into the still water, reflecting sky and trees, with a great carp moving mysteriously through a dim world of water-weed and flower.  There were many other memories of the Prioress which lingered through many years, memories of an old woman lying back in her chair, frail and white, slipping quite consciously out of life into death.  Every day she seemed to grow a trifle smaller, till there was hardly anything left of her.  It was terrible to be with her, so conscious was she that death was approaching, that she and death were drawing nearer and nearer, and to hear her say, “Four planks are the only habit I want now.”  Another time, looking into Evelyn’s eyes, she said, “It is strange that I should be so old and you so young.”

“But I don’t feel young, Mother.”  And every day the old woman grew more and more dependent upon Evelyn.

“You are very good to me.  Why should you wait here till I am dead?  Only it won’t be long, dear.  Of what matter to me that the convent will be changed when I am dead.  If I am a celestial spirit, our disputes—­which is the better, prayer or good works—­will raise a smile upon my lips.  But celestial spirits have no lips.  Why should I trouble myself?  And yet—­”

Evelyn could see that the old woman could not bear to think that her life’s work was to fall to pieces when she was gone.

“But, dear Mother, we all wish that what we have done shall remain; and we all wish to be remembered, at least for a little while.  There is nothing more human.  And your papers, dear Mother, will have to be published; they will vindicate you, as nothing else could.”

“But who is to publish them?” the Prioress asked.  “They would require to be gone over carefully, and I am too weak to do that, too weak even to listen to you reading them.”

Evelyn promised the Prioress again that she would collect all the papers, and, as far as she could, select those which the Prioress would herself select; and the promise she could see pleased the dying woman.  It was at the end of the week that the end came.  Evelyn sat by her, holding her hand, and hearing an ominous rattling sound in the throat, she waited, waited, heard it again, saw the body tremble a little, and then, getting up, she closed the eyes, said a little prayer, and went out of the room to tell the nuns of the Prioress’s death, surprised at what seemed to her like indifference, without tears in her eyes, or any manifestation of grief.  There could be none, for she was not feeling anything; she seemed to herself to be mechanically performing certain duties, telling Mother Philippa, whom she met in the passage, in a smooth, even voice, that the Prioress had died five minutes ago, without any suffering, quite calmly.  Her lack of feeling seemed to her to give the words a strange ring, and she wondered if Mother Philippa would be stirred very deeply.