the crypt passage; the door was locked on the inside; the
key gone.

The procession had started, and Mary Antony had failed to be at her
post. The White Ladies had departed uncounted. Mary Antony had not
been there to count them.

Never before had the Reverend Mother sent for her when she should have
been on duty elsewhere.

Hastening to remedy her failure, Mary Antony drew the bag of peas from
her wallet, opened it, and hurrying from cell to cell, took out a pea
at each, as she verified its emptiness; until five-and-twenty peas lay
in her hand.

So now she waited, her error repaired; yet ever with her--then, as she
ran, and now, as she waited--she felt the benediction of the Reverend
Mother's kiss, the sense of her encircling arms, the wonder of her
gracious words.

"The Presence of the Lord abide with thee in blessing."

Yes, a heavenly calm was in the cloisters. The Devil had stayed away.
Heaven seemed very near. Even that little vain man, the robin,
appeared to be busy elsewhere. Mary Antony was quite alone.

"While we are gone." But they would not now be long. Mary Antony
could tell by the shadows on the grass, and the slant of the sunshine
through a certain arch, that the hour of return drew near.

She would kneel beside the topmost step, and see the Reverend Mother
pass; she would look up at that serene face which had melted into
tenderness; would see the firm line of those beautiful lips----

Suddenly Mary Antony knew that she would not be able to look. Not just
yet could she bear to see the Reverend Mother's countenance, without
that expression of wonderful tenderness. And even as she realised
this, the key grated in the lock below.

Taking up her position at the top of the steps, the five-and-twenty
peas in her right hand, Mary Antony quickly made up her mind. She
could not lift her eyes to the Reverend Mother's face. She would count
the passing feet.

The young lay-sister who carried the light, stumped up the steps, and
set down the lantern with a clatter. She plumped on to her knees
opposite to Mary Antony.

"Sister Mary Rebecca leads to-day," she chanted in a low voice, "and
all the way hath stepped upon my heels."

But Mary Antony took no notice of this information, which, at any other
time, would have delighted her.

Head bowed, eyes on the ground, she awaited the passing feet.

They came, moving slow and sedate.

They passed--stepping two by two, out of her range of visio