With soothing words the Sister bade her wait,
Until she brought the key to unbar the gate. 
The beggar tried to thank her as she lay,
And heard the echoing footsteps die away. 
But what soft voice was that which sounded near,
And stirred strange trouble in her heart to hear? 
She raised her head; she saw—­she seemed to know—­
A face that came from long, long years ago: 
Herself; yet not as when she fled away,
The young and blooming novice, fair and gay,
But a grave woman, gentle and serene: 
The outcast knew it—­what she might have been. 
But, as she gazed and gazed, a radiance bright
Filled all the place with strange and sudden light;
The Nun was there no longer, but instead,
A figure with a circle round its head,
A ring of glory; and a face, so meek,
So soft, so tender . . .  Angela strove to speak,
And stretched her hands out, crying, “Mary mild,
Mother of mercy, help me!—­help your child!”
And Mary answered, “From thy bitter past,
Welcome, my child! oh, welcome home at last! 
I filled thy place.  Thy flight is known to none,
For all thy daily duties I have done;
Gathered thy flowers, and prayed, and sung, and slept;
Didst thou not know, poor child, thy place was kept? 
Kind hearts are here; yet would the tenderest one
Have limits to its mercy:  God has none. 
And man’s forgiveness may be true and sweet,
But yet he stoops to give it.  More complete
Is Love that lays forgiveness at thy feet,
And pleads with thee to raise it.  Only Heaven
Means crowned, not vanquished, when it says ‘Forgiven!’”
Back hurried Sister Monica; but where
Was the poor beggar she left lying there? 
Gone; and she searched in vain, and sought the place
For that wan woman with the piteous face: 
But only Angela at the gateway stood,
Laden with hawthorn blossoms from the wood. 
And never did a day pass by again,
But the old portress, with a sigh of pain,
Would sorrow for her loitering:  with a prayer
That the poor beggar, in her wild despair,
Might not have come to any ill; and when
She ended, “God forgive her!” humbly then
Did Angela bow her head, and say “Amen!”
How pitiful her heart was! all could trace
Something that dimmed the brightness of her face
After that day, which none had seen before;
Not trouble—­but a shadow—­nothing more.

Years passed away.  Then, one dark day of dread
Saw all the sisters kneeling round a bed,
Where Angela lay dying; every breath
Struggling beneath the heavy hand of death. 
But suddenly a flush lit up her cheek,
She raised her wan right hand, and strove to speak. 
In sorrowing love they listened; not a sound
Or sigh disturbed the utter silence round. 
The very tapers’ flames were scarcely stirred,
In such hushed awe the sisters knelt and heard. 
And through that silence Angela told her life: