“While in the Cathedral, Reverend Mother, up in our gallery, I, being placed not far from a window, heard, in a moment of silence, the neighing of a horse in the street without.  It was like to the neighing of mine own lovely palfrey, waiting in the castle court at home, until I should come down and mount him.  Each time that steed neighed, I could see Snowflake more clearly, in trappings of gay crimson, with silver bells, amid many others prancing impatiently, champing their bits as they waited; for it pleased me to come out last, when all were mounted.  Then the riders lifted their plumed caps when I appeared, while Wilfred, pushing my page aside, did swing me into the saddle.  Thus, with shouting and laughter and winding of horn, we would all ride out to the hunt or the tourney; I first, on Snowflake; Wilfred, close behind.”

Very quietly the Prioress sat listening.  She did not take her eyes from the flushed face.  A slight colour tinged her own cheeks.

“Who was Wilfred?” she asked, when Sister Seraphine paused for breath.

“My cousin, whom I should have wed if——­”

“If?”

“If I had not left the world.”

The Prioress considered this.

“If your heart was set upon wedding your cousin, my child, why did you profess a vocation and, renouncing all worldly and carnal desires, gain admission to our sacred Order?”

“My heart was not set on marrying my cousin!” cried Sister Seraphine, with petulance.  “I was weary of Wilfred.  I was weary of everything!  I wanted to profess.  I wished to become a nun.  There were people I could punish, and people I could surprise, better so, than in any other way.  But Wilfred said that, when the time came, he would be there to carry me off.”

“And—­when the time came?”

“He was not there.  I never saw him again.”

The Prioress turned, and looked out through the oriel window.  She seemed to be weighing, carefully, what she should say.

When at length she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed upon the waving tree-tops beyond the Convent wall.

“Sister Seraphine,” she said, “many who embrace the religious life, know what it is to pass through the experience you have now had; but, as a rule, they fight the temptation and conquer it in the secret of their own hearts, in the silence of their own cells.

“Memories of the life that was, before, choosing the better part, we left the world, come back to haunt us, with a wanton sweetness.  Such memories cannot change the state, fixed forever by our vows; but they may awaken in us vain regrets or worldly longings.  Therein lies their sinfulness.

“To help you against this danger, I will now give you two prayers, which you must commit to memory, and repeat whenever need arises.  The first is from the Breviary.”

The Prioress drew toward her a black book with silver clasps, opened it, and read therefrom a short prayer in Latin.  But seeing no light of response or of intelligence upon the face of Sister Seraphine, she slowly repeated a translation.