Thus she walked in loneliness and sorrow.

As she passed up the steps into the cloisters, she noted that Mary Antony was not in her accustomed place.

Slightly wondering, and half unconsciously explaining to herself that the old lay-sister had probably for some reason gone forward with the Sub-Prioress, the Prioress moved down the now empty passage and entered her own cell.

On the threshold she paused, astonished.

In front of the shrine of the Madonna, knelt Mary Antony in a kind of trance, hands clasped, eyes fixed, lips parted, the colour gone from her cheeks, yet a radiance upon her face, like the after-glow of a vision of exceeding glory.

She appeared to be wholly unconscious of the presence of the Prioress, who recovering from her first astonishment, closed the door, and coming forward laid her hand gently upon the old woman’s shoulder.

Mary Antony’s eyes remained fixed, but her lips moved incessantly.  Bending over her, the Prioress could make out disjointed sentences.

“Gone! . . .  But it was at our Lady’s bidding. . . .  Flown?  Ah, gay little Knight of the Bloody Vest!  Nay, it must have been the archangel Gabriel, or maybe Saint George, in shining armour. . . .  How shall we live without the Reverend Mother?  But the will of our blessed Lady must be done.”

“Antony!” said the Prioress.  “Wake up, dear Antony!  You are dreaming again.  You are thinking of the robin and the pea.  I have not gone from you; nor am I going.  See!  I am here.”

She turned the old face about, and brought herself into Mary Antony’s field of vision.

Slowly a light of recognition dawned in those fixed eyes; then came a cry, as of fear and of a great dismay; then a gasping sound, a clutching of the air.  Mary Antony had fallen prone, before the shrine of the Madonna.

An hour later she lay upon her bed, whither they had carried her.  She had recovered consciousness, and partaken of wine and bread.

The colour had returned to her cheeks, when the Prioress came in, dismissed the lay-sister in attendance, closed the door, and sat down beside the couch.

“Thou art better, dear Antony,” said the Prioress.  “They tell me thy strength has returned, and this strange fainting is over.  Thou must lie still yet awhile; but will it weary thee to speak?”

“Nay, Reverend Mother, I should dearly love to speak.  My soul is full of wonder; yet to none saving to you, Reverend Mother, can I tell of that which I have seen.”

“Tell me all, dear Antony,” said the Prioress.  “Sister Mary Rebecca says thy symptoms point to a Divine Vision.”

Mary Antony chuckled.  “For once Sister Mary Rebecca speaks the truth,” she said.  “Have patience with me, Reverend Mother, and I will tell you all.”

The Prioress gently stroked the worn hands lying outside the coverlet.

Mary Antony looked very old in bed.  Were it not for the bright twinkling eyes, she looked too old ever again to stand upon her feet.  Yet how she still bustled upon those same old feet!  How diligently she performed her own duties, and shewed to the other lay-sisters how they should have performed theirs!