“Kneel!” commanded the Prioress, with authority.

The wayward nun jerked down upon her knees, upsetting the stool behind her.

The Prioress made a quick movement, then restrained herself.  She had prayed for patience in dealing with wilfulness.

“We die that we may live,” she said, solemnly.  “Sister Seraphine, this is the lesson your wayward heart must learn.  Dying to self, we live unto God.  Dying to sin, we live unto righteousness.  Dying to the world, we find the Life Eternal.”

On her knees upon the floor, Sister Seraphine felt her position to be such as lent itself to pathos.

“But I want to live to the world!” she cried, and burst into tears.

Now Convent life does not tend to further individual grief.  Constant devout contemplation of the Supreme Sorrow which wrought the world’s salvation lessens the inclination to shed tears of self-pity.

The Prioress was startled and alarmed by the pathetic sobs of Sister Seraphine.

This young nun had but lately been sent on to the Nunnery at Whytstone from a convent at Tewkesbury in which she had served her novitiate, and taken her final vows.  The Prioress now realised how little she knew of the inner working of the mind of Sister Seraphine, and blamed herself for having looked upon the outward appearance rather than upon the heart, taken too much for granted, and relied too entirely upon the reports of others.  Her sense of failure, toward the Community in general, and toward Seraphine in particular, lent her a fresh stock of patience.

She raised the weeping nun from the floor, put her arm around her, with protective gesture, and led her before the Shrine of the Madonna.

“My child,” she said, “there are things we are called upon to suffer which we can best tell to our blessed Lady, herself.  Try to unburden your heart and find comfort . . .  Does your mind hark back to the thought of the earthly love you resigned in order to give yourself solely to the heavenly? . . .  Are you troubled by fears lest you wronged the man you loved, when, leaving him, you became the bride of Heaven?”

Sister Seraphine smiled—­a scornful little smile.  “Nay,” she said, “I was weary of Wilfred.  But—­there were others.”

The voice of the Prioress grew even graver, and more sad.

“Is it then the Fact of marriage which you desired and regret?”

Sister Seraphine laughed—­a hard, self-conscious, little laugh.

“Nay, I could not have brooked to be bound to any man.  But I liked to be loved, and I liked to be First in the thought and heart of another.”

The Prioress looked at the pretty, tear-stained face, at the softly moulded form.  Then an idea came to her.  To voice it, lifted the veil from the very Holy of Holies of her own heart’s sufferings; but she would not shrink from aught which could help this soul she was striving to uplift.