“Dead, Sister, dead?  How terrible!  None of us there.  And the prayers for the dying not said.  Surely, Teresa, you could have sent for us.  I must summon the community at once.”  And the sub-Prioress hurried away, feeling already on her shoulders the full weight of the convent affairs.

In a few moments the Sisters, with scared faces, were hurrying from all parts of the house to the room where the Prioress lay dead.  Evelyn felt she could not go back, and she slipped away to look for Veronica, whom she found in the sacristy.

“Veronica, dear, it is all over.”

The girl turned towards her and clasped her hands.

“Auntie is dead,” was all she said, and, dropping into a chair, her tears began to flow.

“Dear Veronica, we both loved her very much.”

“So we did, Sister; the convent will be very different without her.  Whom will they elect?  Sister Winifred very possibly.  It won’t matter to you, dear, you will go, and we shall have a school; everything will be different.”

“But many weeks will pass before I leave.  Your aunt asked me to put her papers in order; I shall be at work in the library for a long while.”

“Oh, I am so glad, Sister.  I thought perhaps you would go at once.”  And Veronica dried her tears.  “But, dear, we can’t talk now.  I must join the others in the prayers for the dead, and there will be so much to do.”

“We shall have to strip the altar, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, the whole chapel—­we shall want all our black hangings.  But I must go.”

At that moment a Sister hurried in to say the bell was to be tolled at once, and Evelyn went with Veronica to the corner of the cloister where the ropes hung, and stood by listlessly while Veronica dragged at the heavy rope, leaving a long interval between each clang.

“Oughtn’t we to go up, Sister?” Veronica asked again.

“No, I can’t go back yet,” Evelyn answered.  And she went into the garden and followed the winding paths, wondering at the solemn clanging, for it all seemed so useless.

The chaplain arrived half an hour afterwards, and next day several priests came down from London, and there was a great assembly to chant the Requiem Mass.  But Evelyn, though she worked hard at decorating the altar, was not moved by the black hangings, nor by the doleful chant, nor by the flutter of the white surplice and the official drone about the grave.  All the convent had followed the prelates down the garden paths; by the side of the grave Latin prayers were recited and holy water was sprinkled.  On the day the Prioress was buried there were few clouds in the sky, sunshine was pretty constant, and all the birds were singing in the trees; every moment Evelyn expected one of her bullfinches to come out upon a bough and sing its little stave.  If it did, she would take his song for an omen.  But the bullfinches happened to be away, and she wished that the priests’ drone would cease to interrupt the melody of the birds and boughs.  The dear Prioress would prefer Nature’s own music, it was kinder; and the sound of the earth mixed with the stones falling on the coffin-lid was the last sensation.  After it the prelates and nuns returned to the convent, everybody wondering what was going to happen next, every nun asking herself who would be elected Prioress.