Forty years ago, she had chosen her nook in the Convent burying-ground.  She was even then, among the older members of the Community; yet most of those who saw her choose it, now lay in their own.

“She will outlive us all,” said Mother Sub-Prioress one day, sourly; angered by some trick of Mary Antony’s.

“She is like an ancient parrot,” cried Sister Mary Rebecca, anxious to agree with Mother Sub-Prioress.

Which when Mary Antony heard, she chuckled, and snapped her fingers.

“Please God, I shall live long enough,” she said, “to thrust Mother Sub-Prioress into a sackcloth shroud; also, to crack nuts upon the sepulchre of Sister Mary Rebecca.”

But none of these remarks reached the Prioress.  She loved the old lay-sister, knowing the aged body held a faithful and zealous heart, and a mind which, in its quaint simplicity, oft seemed to the Prioress like the mind of a little child—­and of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.

“There is no need for patience, dear Antony,” said the Prioress.  “I can sit in stillness beside thee, until thy tale be fully told.  Begin at the beginning.”

The slanting rays of the late afternoon sun, piercing through the narrow window, fell in a golden band of light upon the folded hands, lighting up the aged face with an almost unearthly radiance.

“I was in the cloisters,” began Mary Antony, “awaiting the return from Vespers of the holy Ladies.

“I go there betimes, because at that hour I am accustomed to hold converse with a little vain man in a red jerkin, who comes to see me, when he knows me to be alone.  I tell him tales such as he never hears elsewhere.  To-day I planned to tell him how the great Lord Bishop, arriving unannounced, rode into the courtyard; and, seeing old Antony standing in the doorway, mistook her for the Reverend Mother.  That was a great moment in the life of Mary Antony, and confers upon her added dignity.

“’So turn out thy toes, and make thy best bow, and behave thee as a little layman should behave in the presence of one who hath been mistaken for one holding so high an office in Holy Church.’

“Thus,” explained Mary Antony, “had I planned to strike awe into the little red breast of that over-bold robin.”

“And came the robin to the cloisters?” inquired the Prioress, presently, for Mary Antony lay upon her pillow laughing to herself, nodding and bowing, and making her fingers hop to and fro on the coverlet, as a bird might hop with toes out turned.  Nor would she be recalled at once to the happenings of the afternoon.