“But I cannot have thee take upon thyself to decide the future state of the White Ladies.  Who art thou, to send me to Paradise with a fillip of thine old finger-nail, yet to keep our excellent Sub-Prioress in Purgatory?  Shame upon thee, Mary Antony!” But the sternness of the Reverend Mother’s tone was belied by the merriment in her grey eyes.

“So no more of that, my Antony; though, truth to tell, thy story gives me relief, answering a question I was meaning to put to thee.  I heard, not an hour ago, that Sister Antony had boasted that with a turn of her thumb and finger she could, any night, send Mother Sub-Prioress to Purgatory.”

“Who said that of me?” stuttered Mary Antony.  “Who said it, Reverend Mother?”

“A little bird,” murmured the Prioress.  “A little bird, dear Antony; but not thy pretty robin.  Also, the boast was taken to mean poison in the broth of Mother Sub-Prioress.  Hast thou ever put harmful things in the broth of Mother Sub-Prioress?”

Mary Antony slipped to her knees.

“Only beans, Reverend Mother, castor beans; and, when her temper was vilest, purging herbs.  Nothing more, I swear it!  Old Antony knows naught of poisons; only of mixing balsams—­ah, ha!—­and soothing ointments!  Our blessed Lady knows the tale is false.”

Hastily the Prioress lifted the nosegay and buried her face in bindweed and dandelions.

“I believe thee,” she said, in a voice not over steady.  “Rise from thy knees.  But, remember, I forbid thee to put aught into Mother Sub-Prioress’s broth, save things that soothe and comfort.  Give me thy word for this, Antony.”

The old woman humbly lifted the hem of the Prioress’s robe, and pressed it to her lips.

“I promise, Reverend Mother,” she said, “and I do repent me of my sin.”

“Sit beside me,” commanded the Prioress.  “I have more to say to thee. . . .  Think not hard thoughts of the Sub-Prioress.  She is stern, and extreme to mark what is done amiss, but this she conceives to be her duty.  She is a most pious Lady.  Her zeal is but a sign of her piety.”

Mary Antony’s keen eyes, meeting those of the Prioress, twinkled.

Once again the Prioress took refuge in the posy.  She was beginning to have had enough of the scent of dandelions.

“Mother Sub-Prioress is sick,” she said.  “The cold struck her last evening, after sunset, in the orchard.  I have bidden her to keep her bed awhile.  We must tend her kindly, Antony, and help her back to health again.

“Sister Mary Rebecca is also sick, with pains in her bones and slight fever.  She too keeps her bed to-day.  Strive to feel kindly toward her, Antony.  I know she oft thinks evil where none was meant, telling tales of wrong which are mostly of her own imagining.  But, in so doing, she harms herself more than she can harm others.

“By stirring up the mud in a dark pool, you dim the reflection of the star which, before, shone bright within it.  But you do not dim the star, shining on high.