It was so many years since any touch of tenderness had reached her.

And now—­those gracious arms around her; those serene eyes looking upon her with love in their regard, and a something more, which her old heart failed to fathom; those lips, whose every word of command she and the whole Community hastened to obey, leaving a kiss upon her brow!

Long after the White Ladies had formed into procession and left the cloisters, Mary Antony stood as one that dreamed.  Then, remembering her duties, she hurried to the cloisters, but found them empty; down the steps to the crypt passage; the door was locked on the inside; the key gone.

The procession had started, and Mary Antony had failed to be at her post.  The White Ladies had departed uncounted.  Mary Antony had not been there to count them.

Never before had the Reverend Mother sent for her when she should have been on duty elsewhere.

Hastening to remedy her failure, Mary Antony drew the bag of peas from her wallet, opened it, and hurrying from cell to cell, took out a pea at each, as she verified its emptiness; until five-and-twenty peas lay in her hand.

So now she waited, her error repaired; yet ever with her—­then, as she ran, and now, as she waited—­she felt the benediction of the Reverend Mother’s kiss, the sense of her encircling arms, the wonder of her gracious words.

“The Presence of the Lord abide with thee in blessing.”

Yes, a heavenly calm was in the cloisters.  The Devil had stayed away.  Heaven seemed very near.  Even that little vain man, the robin, appeared to be busy elsewhere.  Mary Antony was quite alone.

“While we are gone.”  But they would not now be long.  Mary Antony could tell by the shadows on the grass, and the slant of the sunshine through a certain arch, that the hour of return drew near.

She would kneel beside the topmost step, and see the Reverend Mother pass; she would look up at that serene face which had melted into tenderness; would see the firm line of those beautiful lips——­

Suddenly Mary Antony knew that she would not be able to look.  Not just yet could she bear to see the Reverend Mother’s countenance, without that expression of wonderful tenderness.  And even as she realised this, the key grated in the lock below.

Taking up her position at the top of the steps, the five-and-twenty peas in her right hand, Mary Antony quickly made up her mind.  She could not lift her eyes to the Reverend Mother’s face.  She would count the passing feet.

The young lay-sister who carried the light, stumped up the steps, and set down the lantern with a clatter.  She plumped on to her knees opposite to Mary Antony.

“Sister Mary Rebecca leads to-day,” she chanted in a low voice, “and all the way hath stepped upon my heels.”

But Mary Antony took no notice of this information, which, at any other time, would have delighted her.