When the Prioress looked up and met the gay twinkle, the stone in the Bishop’s ring was a heavenly blue, the colour of forget-me-nots beside a meadow brook, or the clear azure of the sky above a rosy sunset.  But presently he passed his hand over his eyes, as if to shut out some bright vision, and to turn his mind to more sober thought; and, at that moment, the stone in his ring gleamed a pale opal, threaded with flashes of green.

The Prioress returned to the subject, with studied seriousness.

“I did not suppose, Reverend Father, that it was to be of any advantage to the world, that Sister Seraphine should return to it.  The advantage was to be to her, and also to this whole Community, well rid of the presence of one who finds our sacred exercises irksome; our beautiful Nunnery, a prison; her cell, a living tomb.  She cries out for life.  ‘I want to live,’ she said, ’I am young, I am gay, I am beautiful!  I want life.’”

“To such as Sister Seraphine,” remarked the Bishop, gravely, “life is but a mirror which reflects themselves.  Other forms and faces may flit by, in the background; dimly seen, scarcely noticed.  There is but one face and form occupying the entire foreground.  Life is, to such, the mirror which ministers to vanity.  Should a husband appear in the picture, he is soon relegated to the background, receiving only occasional glances over the shoulder.  If children dance into the field of vision, they are petulantly driven elsewhere.  Tell me?  Did Sister Seraphine’s desire for life include any expression of the desire to give life?”

Involuntarily the Prioress glanced at the sweet Babe upon the Virgin’s knees.

“No,” she said, very low.

“I thought not,” said the Bishop.  “Self-centred, shallow natures are not capable of the sublime passion for motherhood; partly, no doubt, because they themselves possess no life worth passing on.”

The Prioress rose quickly and, moving to the window, flung open a second casement.  It was imperative, at that moment, to hide her face; for the uncontrollable flood of emotion at her heart, could scarce fail to send a tell-tale wave to disturb the calm of her countenance.

Whereupon the Bishop turned, to see at what the Prioress had glanced before answering his question.

“No,” he mused, as she resumed her seat, his eyes upon the tree-tops beyond the casement, “the Seraphines have not the instinct of motherhood.  And the future greatness of our race depends upon those noble women who are able to pass on to their sons and daughters a life which is true, and brave, and worthy; a life whose foundation is self-sacrifice, whose cornerstone is loyalty, and from whose summit waves the banner of unsullied love of hearth and home.