ories of the Prioress which lingered through
many years, memories of an old woman lying back in her chair, frail
and white, slipping quite consciously out of life into death. Every
day she seemed to grow a trifle smaller, till there was hardly
anything left of her. It was terrible to be with her, so conscious
was she that death was approaching, that she and death were drawing
nearer and nearer, and to hear her say, "Four planks are the only
habit I want now." Another time, looking into Evelyn's eyes, she
said, "It is strange that I should be so old and you so young."

"But I don't feel young, Mother." And every day the old woman grew
more and more dependent upon Evelyn.

"You are very good to me. Why should you wait here till I am dead?
Only it won't be long, dear. Of what matter to me that the convent
will be changed when I am dead. If I am a celestial spirit, our
disputes--which is the better, prayer or good works--will raise a
smile upon my lips. But celestial spirits have no lips. Why should I
trouble myself? And yet--"

Evelyn could see that the old woman could not bear to think that her
life's work was to fall to pieces when she was gone.

"But, dear Mother, we all wish that what we have done shall remain;
and we all wish to be remembered, at least for a little while. There
is nothing more human. And your papers, dear Mother, will have to be
published; they will vindicate you, as nothing else could."

"But who is to publish them?" the Prioress asked. "They would require
to be gone over carefully, and I am too weak to do that, too weak
even to listen to you reading them."

Evelyn promised the Prioress again that she would collect all the
papers, and, as far as she could, select those which the Prioress
would herself select; and the promise she could see pleased the dying
woman. It was at the end of the week that the end came. Evelyn sat by
her, holding her hand, and hearing an ominous rattling sound in the
throat, she waited, waited, heard it again, saw the body tremble a
little, and then, getting up, she closed the eyes, said a little
prayer, and went out of the room to tell the nuns of the Prioress's
death, surprised at what seemed to her like indifference, without
tears in her eyes, or any manifestation of grief. There could be
none, for she was not feeling anything; she seemed to herself to be
mechanically performing certain duties, telling Mother Philippa, whom
she met in the passage, in a smooth, even