er. But the voice did not break, and she sang on,
louder, now, than she realized, the full notes swelling in her throat,
and vibrating between the narrow walls, and floating out through the
open door to join the flight of the swallows.

The door of the cell opened gently, but she did not hear, and sang on,
leaning back in her chair and gazing still at the pink clouds above the
mountains.

"Death is my love, dark-eyed death--"

she sang.

"Maria!"

The abbess was standing in the doorway and speaking to her, but she did
not hear.

"His hands are sweetly cold and gentle--
Flowers of leek, and firefly--
Holy Saint John!"

"Maria!" cried the abbess, impatiently. "What follies are you singing? I
could hear you in my room!"

Maria Addolorata started and rose from her seat, still holding her
needlework, and turning half round towards her superior, with suddenly
downcast eyes. The elder lady came forward with slow dignity and walked
as far as the door of the balcony, where she stood still for a moment,
gazing at the beautiful sky. She was not a stately woman, for she was
too short and stout, but she had that calm air of assured superiority
which takes the place of stateliness, and which seems to belong
especially to those who occupy important positions in the Church. Her
large features, though too heavy, were imposing in their excessive
pallor, while the broad, dark brown shadows all around and beneath the
large black eyes gave the face a depth of expression which did not,
perhaps, wholly correspond with the original character. It was a
striking face, and considering the wide interval between the ages of the
abbess and her niece, and the natural difference of colouring, there was
a strong family resemblance in the two women.

The abbess sat down upon the only chair, and Maria remained standing
before her, her sewing in her hands.

"I have often told you that you must not sing in your cell," said the
abbess, in a coldly severe tone.

Maria's shoulders shook her veil a little, but she still looked at the
floor.

"I cannot help it," she answered in a constrained voice. "I did not know
that I was singing--"

"That is ridiculous! How can one sing, and not know it? You are not
deaf. At least, you do not sing as though you were. I will not have it.
I could hear you as far away as my own room--a love-song, too!"

"The love of death," suggested Maria.

"It makes no differenc