had left that splendid Knight. And, as I
cried, the silver bells fell silent, all grew | dark around me, and I
knew no more, until I woke up in mine own bed, tended by Sister Mary
Rebecca, and Sister Teresa; with Abigail--noisy hussy!--helping to fetch
and carry.

"But--when I close mine eyes--Ah, then! Yes, I hear again the sound of
silver chimes. And some day I shall hear--shall hear again--that
wondrous voice of--voice of tenderness, which said: 'Take her, she hath
been ever--ever'----"

The old voice which had talked for so long a time, wavered, weakened,
then of a sudden fell silent.

Mary Antony had dropped off to sleep.

Slowly the Prioress rose, feeling her way, as one blinded by too great a
light.

She stood for some moments leaning against the doorpost, her hand upon
the latch, watching the furrowed face upon the pillow, gently slumbering;
still illumined by a halo of sunset light.

Then she opened the door, and passed out; closing it behind her.

As the Prioress closed the door, Mary Antony opened one eye.

Yea, verily! She was alone!

She raised herself upon the couch, listening intently.

Far away in the distance, she fancied she could hear the door of the
Reverend Mother's chamber shut--yes!--and the turning of the key within
the lock.

Then Mary Antony arose, tottered over to the crucifix, and, falling on
her knees, lifted clasped hands to the dying Redeemer.

"O God," she said, "full well I know that to lie concerning holy things
doth damn the soul forever. But the great Lord Bishop said she would
thrust happiness from her with both hands, unless our Lady vouchsafed a
vision. Gladly will I bear the endless torments of hell fires, that she
may know fulness of joy and pleasures for evermore. But, oh, Son of
Mary, by the sorrows of our Lady's heart, by the yearnings of her love, I
ask that--once a year--I may come out--to sit just for one hour on my
jasper seat, and see the Reverend Mother walk, between the great Lord
Bishop and the splendid Knight, up the wide golden stair. And some day
at last, O Saviour Christ, I ask it of Thy wounds, 'Thy dying love, Thy
broken heart, may the sin of Mary Antony--her great sin, her sin of thus
lying about holy things--be forgiven her, because--because--she loved"----

Old Mary Antony fell forward on the stones. This time, she had really
swooned.

It took the combined efforts of Sister Teresa, Sister Mary Rebecca, and
Mother Sub-Prioress, to