ure besides the plain bed,
a little table, a couple of chairs, and a tall, dark wardrobe. A grim
crucifix hung above the abbess's head, on the white wall, the work of an
age in which horror was familiar to the eye, and needed exaggeration to
teach hardened humanity.

Maria was too much occupied with her own thoughts to notice the sick
woman's condition at once. Besides, during the last two days there had
been no return of the syncope, and the abbess had seemed to be improving
steadily. She breathed rather heavily and seemed to be asleep.

Gradually, however, as the nun sat motionless beside her and as the
storm of thought subsided, she became aware that all was not right. Her
aunt's face was unnaturally grey, the breathing was unusually slow and
heavy. When the breath was drawn in, the thin nostrils flattened
themselves strangely on each side, and the features had a peaked look.
Maria rose and felt the pulse. It was fluttering, and not always
perceptible.

At first Maria's attention to these facts was only mechanical. Then,
with a sudden sinking at her own heart, she realized what they might
mean--another crisis like the one in which the abbess had so narrowly
escaped death. It was true that on that occasion she had called for help
more than once, showing that she had felt herself to be sinking. At
present she seemed to be unconscious, which, if anything, was a worse
feature.

Maria drew a long breath and held it, biting her lips, as people do in
moments of suspense, doubt, and anxiety. It was as though fate had
thrust the great decision onward at the last moment. The life that hung
in the balance before her eyes meant the possibility of waiting, with
the feeble consolation of being yet undecided.

She stood as still as a statue, her face like a mask, her hand on the
unconscious woman's wrist. The stimulant which Dalrymple had shown her
how to use was at hand--the glass with which to administer it. It would
prolong life. It might save it.

Should she give it? The seconds ran to minutes, and the dreadful
question was unanswered. If the abbess died, as die she almost certainly
must within half an hour, if the medicine were not given to her--if she
died, Maria would call the sisters, the portress would be instructed,
and when Dalrymple came on the morrow, he would be told that all was
over, and that he was no longer needed. Nothing could be more sure. He
might do his utmost. He could not enter the convent again.