“You did right to be angry, my daughter,” he said.  “You were not angry with me, nor with the brave Crusader, nor with the foolish Seraphine.  Your anger, all unconsciously, was aroused by a system, a method of life which is contrary to Nature, and therefore surely at variance with the will of God.  I have long had my doubts concerning these vows of perpetual celibacy for women.  For men, it is different.  The creative powers in a man, if denied their natural functions, stir him to great enterprise, move him to beget fine phantasies, creations of his brain, children of his intellect.  If he stamp not his image on brave sons and fair daughters, he leaves his mark on life in many other ways, both brave and fair.  But it is not so with woman; in the very nature of things it cannot be.  Methinks these Nunneries would serve a better purpose were they schools from which to send women forth into the world to be good wives and mothers, rather than store-houses filled with sad samples of Nature’s great purposes deliberately unfulfilled.”

The merry schoolboy look had vanished.  The Bishop’s eyes were stern and searching; yet he looked not on the Prioress as he spoke.

Amazement was writ larger than ever, on her face; but she held herself well under control.

“Such views, my lord, if freely expressed and adopted, would change the entire monastic system.”

“I know it,” said the Bishop.  “And I would not express them, saving to you and to one other, to whom I also talk freely.  But the older I grow, the more clearly do I see that systems are man-made, and therefore often mistaken, injurious, pernicious.  But Nature is Divine.  Those who live in close touch with Nature, who rule their lives by Nature’s rules, do not stray far from the Divine plan of the Creator.  But when man takes upon himself to say ‘Thou shalt,’ or ’Thou shalt not,’ quickly confusion enters.  A false premise becomes the starting-point; and the goal, if it stop short of perdition, is, at best, folly and failure.”

The Bishop paused.

The eyes of the woman before him were dark with sorrow, regret, and the dawning of a great fear.  Presently she spoke.

“To say these things here, my lord, is to say them too late.”

“It is never too late,” replied Symon of Worcester. “‘Too late’ tolls the knell of the coward heart.  If we find out a mistake while we yet walk the earth where we made it, it is not too late to amend it.”

“Think you so, Reverend Father?  Then what do you counsel me to do—­with Seraphine?”

“Speak to her gently, and with great care and prudence.  Say to her much of that which you have said to me, and a little of that which I have said to you, but expressed in such manner as will be suited to a foolish mind.  You and I can hurl bricks at one another, my dear Prioress, and be the better for the exercise.  But we must not fling at little Seraphine aught harder than a pillow of