“‘TAKE HER; SHE HATH BEEN EVER THINE.  I HAVE BUT KEPT HER FOR THEE.’”

“When I lifted my head once more, the Reverend Mother and the splendid Knight had risen.  Heaven was in their eyes.  Her hand was in his.  His arm was around her.

“As I looked, they turned together, passed out through the doorway, and paced slowly down the passage.

“I heard their steps growing fainter and yet more faint, until they reached the cloisters.  Then all was still.”

“Then I heard other steps arriving.  I still kneeled on, fearful to move; because those earthly steps were drowning the sound of the silver chimes which filled the air.

“Then—­why, then I saw the Reverend Mother, returned—­and returned alone.

“So I cried out, because she had left that splendid Knight.  And, as I cried, the silver bells fell silent, all grew | dark around me, and I knew no more, until I woke up in mine own bed, tended by Sister Mary Rebecca, and Sister Teresa; with Abigail—­noisy hussy!—­helping to fetch and carry.

“But—­when I close mine eyes—­Ah, then!  Yes, I hear again the sound of silver chimes.  And some day I shall hear—­shall hear again—­that wondrous voice of—­voice of tenderness, which said:  ’Take her, she hath been ever—­ever’——­”

The old voice which had talked for so long a time, wavered, weakened, then of a sudden fell silent.

Mary Antony had dropped off to sleep.

Slowly the Prioress rose, feeling her way, as one blinded by too great a light.

She stood for some moments leaning against the doorpost, her hand upon the latch, watching the furrowed face upon the pillow, gently slumbering; still illumined by a halo of sunset light.

Then she opened the door, and passed out; closing it behind her.

As the Prioress closed the door, Mary Antony opened one eye.

Yea, verily!  She was alone!

She raised herself upon the couch, listening intently.

Far away in the distance, she fancied she could hear the door of the Reverend Mother’s chamber shut—­yes!—­and the turning of the key within the lock.

Then Mary Antony arose, tottered over to the crucifix, and, falling on her knees, lifted clasped hands to the dying Redeemer.

“O God,” she said, “full well I know that to lie concerning holy things doth damn the soul forever.  But the great Lord Bishop said she would thrust happiness from her with both hands, unless our Lady vouchsafed a vision.  Gladly will I bear the endless torments of hell fires, that she may know fulness of joy and pleasures for evermore.  But, oh, Son of Mary, by the sorrows of our Lady’s heart, by the yearnings of her love, I ask that—­once a year—­I may come out—­to sit just for one hour on my jasper seat, and see the Reverend Mother walk, between the great Lord Bishop and the splendid Knight, up the wide golden stair.  And some day at last, O Saviour Christ, I ask it of Thy wounds, ’Thy dying love, Thy broken heart, may the sin of Mary Antony—­her great sin, her sin of thus lying about holy things—­be forgiven her, because—­because—­she loved”——­