e sat
above us in her saddle, laughing: her long hair blew about her, and the
red blood glowed in her cheeks, and her eyes were like pools that the
sun is shining on--" Suddenly the Sister's voice broke, and she hid her
face in her hands.

The old nun regarded her compassionately. Hers had been a long hard
life, and she was very near the mountain-top from whose summit the
mystery of the valleys is revealed.

After a time she spoke with tender reverence: "Almighty Father, who hast
given us strength to endure our own trials without murmuring, grant us
also the grace to accept patiently the chastening of those we love."

The bowed head of Sister Wynfreda sank lower, and slowly the heaving of
her breast was stilled. In the chapel four feeble old voices raised a
chant that trembled and shook like a quivering heart-string.

"I beseech thee now,
Lord of Heaven,
And pray to thee,
Best of human-born,
That thou pity me,
Mighty Lord!
And aid me,
Father Almighty,
That I thy will
May perform
Before from this frail life
I depart."

Tremulously sweet it drifted out over the garden and blended with the
aroma in the air. The wounded man smiled through his pain.

Raising her tear-stained face at last, Sister Wynfreda said humbly, "God
pardon me if I sin in my grief, but to me it seems so bitter a thing
when trouble comes upon the young. The first fall of the young bird
in its flight, the first blow that startles the young horse,--I flinch
before them as before my own wounds. When the light of the fair young
day dies before the noon, I feel the shadow in my heart; and it saddens
me to find a flower that worms have eaten in the bud and robbed of
its brief life in the sun. How much more, then, shall I grieve for the
blighting of this human flower? I declare with truth that the first time
I saw her my heart went out to her in a love which taught me how mothers
feel. Her freshness and gladness have fed my starved heart like wine. I
cannot bear that trouble should crush them out of her in the very flower
of her youth; I cannot bear that tears should wear channels down her
soft cheeks and dim the brightness of her eyes. Sooner would I give what
remains to me of life! Sister, do I sin? Do I seem to murmur against His
will? But I have grown used to suffering, while she--what has she known
but love? Oh, have I not suffered enough for both? Could she not have
been spared?" Her voice mounted to a cry of exceeding