Almighty and Everlasting God, grant that our wills be ever meekly subject to Thy will, and our hearts be ever honestly ready to serve Thee.  Amen.

Her eyes rested, with a wistful smile, upon the book.

“This prayer might suffice,” she said, “if our hearts were truly honest, if our wills were ever yielded.  But, alas, our hearts are deceitful above all things, and our wills are apt to turn traitor to our good intentions.

“Therefore I have found for you, in the Gregorian Sacramentary, another prayer—­less well-known, yet much more ancient, written over six hundred years ago.  It deals effectually with the deceitful heart, the insidious, tempting thoughts, and the unstable will.  Here is a translation which I have myself inscribed upon the margin.”

The Prioress laid her folded hands upon the missal and as she repeated the ancient sixth-century prayer, in all its depth of inspired simplicity, her voice thrilled with deep emotion, for she was giving to another that which had meant infinitely much to her own inner life.

Almighty God, unto Whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and from Whom no secrets are hid:  Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of Thy Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love Thee, and worthily magnify Thy Holy Name, through Christ our Lord.  Amen.

The Prioress turned her face from Sister Seraphine’s unresponsive countenance and fixed her eyes once more upon the tree-tops.  She was thinking of the long years of secret conflict, known only to Him from Whom no secrets are hid; of the constant cleansing of her thoughts, for which she had so earnestly pleaded; of the fear lest she should never worthily magnify that Holy Name.

Presently—­her heart filled with humble tenderness—­she turned to Sister Seraphine.

“These prayers, my child, which you will commit to memory before you sleep this night, will protect you from a too insistent recollection of the world you have resigned; and will assist you, with real inward thoroughness, to die daily to self, in order that the Holy Name of our dear Lord may be more worthily magnified in you.”

But, alas! this gentle treatment, these long silences, this quiet recitation of holy prayers, had but stirred the naughty spirit in Sister Seraphine.

Her shallow nature failed to understand the deeps of the noble heart, dealing thus tenderly with her.  She measured its ocean-wide greatness, by the little artificial runnels of her own morbid emotions.  She mistook gentleness for weakness; calm self-control, for lack of strength of will.  Her wholesome awe of the Prioress was forgotten.

“But I do not want to die!” she exclaimed.  “I want to live—­to live—­to live!”

The Prioress looked up, astonished.

The surface humility had departed from the swollen countenance of Sister Seraphine.  The petulant defiance was plainly visible.