Yes, this was certainly the great guest-chamber of the Blossholme Priory, which, since the nuns had now few guests and many places in which to put them, had been given up to her, Sir John Foterell’s heiress, as her schoolroom.  There she lay, thinking that she was a child again, a happy, careless child, or that she dreamed, till presently the door opened and Mother Matilda appeared, followed by Emlyn, who bore a tray, on which stood a silver bowl that smoked.  There was no mistaking Mother Matilda in her black Benedictine robe and her white whimple, wearing the great silver crucifix which was her badge of office, and the golden ring with an emerald bezel whereon was cut St. Catherine being broken on the wheel—­the ancient ring which every Prioress of Blossholme had worn from the beginning.  Moreover, who that had ever seen it could forget her sweet, old, high-bred face, with the fine lips, the arched nose, and the quick, kind grey eyes!

Cicely strove to rise and to do her reverence, as had been her custom during those childish years, only to find that she could not, for lo! she fell back heavily upon her pillow.  Thereon Emlyn, setting down the tray with a clatter upon a table, ran to her, and putting her arms about her, began to scold, as was her fashion, but in a very gentle voice; and Mother Matilda, kneeling by her bed, gave thanks to Jesus and His blessed saints—­though why she thanked Him at first Cicely did not understand.

“Am I ill, reverend Mother?” she asked.

“Not now, daughter, but you were very ill,” answered the Prioress in her sweet, low voice.  “Now we think that God has healed you.”

“How long have I been here?” she asked.

The Mother began to reckon, counting her beads, one for every day—­for in such places time slips by—­but long before she had finished Emlyn replied quickly—­

“Cranwell Towers was burned three weeks yesternight.”

Then Cicely remembered, and with a bitter groan turned her face to the wall, while the Mother reproached Emlyn, saying she had killed her.

“I think not,” answered the nurse in a low voice.  “I think she has that which will not let her die”—­a saying that puzzled the Prioress at this time.

Emlyn was right.  Cicely did not die.  On the contrary, she grew strong and well in her body, though it was long before her mind recovered.  Indeed, she glided about the place like a ghost in her black mourning robe, for now she no longer doubted that Christopher was dead, and she, the wife of a week, widowed as well as orphaned.

Then in her utter desolation came comfort; a light broke on the darkness of her soul like the moon above a tortured midnight sea.  She was no longer quite alone; the murdered Christopher had left his image with her.  If she lived a child would be born to him, and therefore she would surely live.  One evening, on her knees, she whispered her secret to the Prioress Matilda, whereat the old nun blushed like a girl, yet, after a moment’s silent prayer, laid a thin hand upon her head in blessing.