The Prioress took a portion of the broth; then pushed the bowl from her, and turned to the fruit.

“There, Antony,” she said.  “The broth is excellent; but I have enough.  Finish it thyself.  It will pleasure me to see thee enjoy it.”

Faint and thankful, old Antony seized the bowl.  And as she drank the broth, her shrewd eyes twinkled.  For had not the Devil said she would sup on it herself; knowing that much, yet not knowing that she would receive it from the hand of the Reverend Mother?

It has been ever so, from Eden onwards, when the Devil tries his hand at prophecy.

For a while the Prioress talked lightly, of flowers and birds; of the garden and the orchard; of the gift of three fine salmon, sent to them by the good monks of the Priory at Worcester.

But, presently, when the broth was finished and a faint colour tinted the old cheeks, she passed on to the storm and the sunset, the rolling thunder and the torrents of rain.  Then of a sudden she said: 

“By the way, Antony, hast thou made mention, to any, of thy fearsome tale of the walking through the cloisters, in line with the White Ladies, of the Spectre of the saintly Sister Agatha?”

“Nay, Reverend Mother,” said Mary Antony.  “Did not you forbid me to speak of it?”

“True,” said the Prioress.  “Well, Antony, I went in the storm, to look for her; but—­I found not Sister Agatha.”

“That I already knew,” said Mary Antony, nodding her head sagaciously.

The Prioress cast upon her a quick, anxious look.

“What mean you, Antony?”

Then old Mary Antony fell upon her knees, and kissed the hem of the Prioress’s robe.  “Oh, Reverend Mother,” she stammered, “I have a confession to make!”

“Make it,” said the Prioress, with white lips.

“Reverend Mother, when you sent me from you, after making my report, I went first, as commanded, to the kitchens.  But afterward, in my cell, I found these.”

Mary Antony opened her wallet and drew out the linen bag in which she kept her peas.  Shaking its contents into the palm of her hand, she held out six peas to view.

“Reverend Mother,” she said, “there were twenty-five in the bag.  I thought I had counted twenty out into my hand; so when all the peas had dropped and yet another holy Lady passed, I thought that made twenty-one.  But when I found six peas in my bag, I became aware of my folly.  I had but counted nineteen, and had no pea to let fall for the twentieth holy Lady.  Yet I ran in haste with my false report, when, had I but thought to look in my wallet, all would have been made clear.  Will the Reverend Mother forgive old Mary Antony?”

She shot a quick glance at the Prioress; and, at sight of the immense relief on that loved face, felt ready for any punishment with which it might please Heaven to visit her deceit.

“Dear Antony,” began the Reverend Mother, smiling.