the motherhood which, but for her, would have been mine. . . .  I want the soft dark head against my breast. . . .  I want sweet baby lips drawing fresh life from mine. . . .  I want the little feet, resting together in my hand. . . .  All Nature sings of life, and the power to bestow life.  Yet mine arms are empty, and my strength does but carry mine own self to and fro. . . .  Oh, give me grace to turn my thoughts from Life to Sacrifice.”

The Prioress rose, crossed the floor, and knelt long in prayer and contemplation before the crucifix.

The moonlight fell upon the dying face of the suffering Saviour, upon the crown of thorns, the helpless arms out-stretched, the bleeding feet.

O, Infinite Redeemer!  O, mighty Sacrifice!  O, Love of God, made manifest!

The Prioress knelt long in adoring contemplation.  At intervals she prostrated herself, pressing her forehead against the base of the cross.

At length she rose and moved toward the inner room, where stood her couch.

But even as she reached the threshold she turned quickly back, and kneeling before the Virgin and Child clasped the little marble foot of the Babe, covered it with kisses, and pressed it to her breast.

Then, lifting despairing eyes to the tender face of the Madonna:  “O, Mother of God,” she cried, “grant unto me to love the pierced feet of thy dear Son crucified, more than I love the little, baby feet of the Infant Jesus on thy knees.”

A great calm fell upon her after this final prayer.  It seemed, of a sudden, more efficacious than all the long hours of vigil.  She felt persuaded that it would be granted.

She rose to her feet, almost too much dazed and too weary to cross to the inner cell.

A breath of exquisite fragrance filled the air.

At the feet of the Madonna stood a wondrous bouquet of lilies of the valley and white roses.

Pale but radiant, the Prioress passed into her sleeping-chamber.  The loving heart of old Mary Antony had been full of lilies and roses.  It was not her fault that her old hands had been filled with weeds.  Divine Love, understanding, had wrought this gracious miracle.

As the Prioress stretched herself upon her couch, she murmured softly:  “The Lord seeth not as man seeth:  for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.

“And, after all, this miracle of the Divine perception doth take place daily.

“Alas, when our vaunted roses and lilies appear, in His sight, as mere worthless weeds.

“The Lord looketh on the heart.”

* * * * * *

When the Prioress awoke, the sunlight filled her chamber.

She hastened to the archway between the cells, and looked.

The dandelions seemed more gaily golden, in the morning light.  The bindweed had faded.

The Prioress was disappointed.  She had counted upon sending early for old Mary Antony.  She had pictured her bewildered joy.  Yet now the nosegay was as before.