ing 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.

"The Lord Abbot declares that your marriage was no true marriage, my
daughter, though why I do not understand, since the man was he whom your
heart chose, and you were wed to him by an ordained priest before God's
altar and in presence of the congregation."

"I care not what he says," answered Cicely in a stubborn voice. "If I am
not a true wife, then no woman ever was."

"Dear daughter," answered Mother Matilda, "it is not for us unlearned
women to question the wisdom of a holy Abbot who doubtless is inspired
from on high."

"If he is inspired it is not from on high, Mother. Would God or His
saints teach him to murder my father and my husband, to seize my
heritage, or to hold my person in this gentle prison? Such inspirations
do not come from above, Mother."

"Hush