smoothing the wrinkles.

Five hours had passed since they found her.

It had taken long to restore her to consciousness; and so soon as she
awoke to her surroundings, and recognised Mother Sub-Prioress, and the
many faces around her, she relapsed into silence, refusing to answer
any questions, yet keeping her eyes anxiously fixed upon the door.

Seeing which, Sister Teresa slipped from the room and ran secretly to
tell the Lord Bishop, who had paid but a brief visit to the Palace and
was now pacing the lawn below the cloisters.

The Bishop came at once; when, seeing him enter, Mary Antony gave a
cry, striving to raise herself from the pillows.

Moving to the bedside, the Bishop laid his hand upon the shaking hands,
which had been clasped at sight of him.

An eager question was in the eyes lifted to his.

The Bishop bent over the couch.

"Yes," he said, and smiled.

The anxious look faded. The eyes closed. A triumphant smile illumined
the dying face.

Turning, the Bishop asked a few whispered questions of the Sub-Prioress.

Mary Antony had taken a sip of wine, but seemed to find it impossible
to partake of food. She had been so long without, that now nature
refused it.

"Undoubtedly she is dying," said Mother Sub-Prioress, not unkindly, but
in the matter-of-fact tone of one to whom the hard outline of a fact is
unsoftened by the atmosphere of imagination or of sympathy.

"I know it," said the Bishop, in low tones. "Therefore am I come to
confess our sister and to administer the final rites and consolations
of the Church. I have with me all that is needed. You may now
withdraw, and leave me to watch alone beside Sister Mary Antony."

"We sent for Father Peter," began Mother Sub-Prioress, "but she paid no
heed to any of his questions, neither would she"----

The Bishop took one step toward Mother Sub-Prioress, with uplifted
hand, pointing to the door.

Mother Sub-Prioress hastened out.

The Bishop followed her into the passage, where a waiting crowd of nuns
created that atmosphere of excited tension, which seizes certain minds
at the near approach of death.

"I bid you all to go to your cells," said the Bishop, "there to spend
the next hour in earnest prayer for the passing soul of this aged nun
who, during so long a time, has lived and worked in this Convent. Let
every door be closed. I keep the final vigil alone. When I need help
I shall ring the Convent bell."

Immovable in the passage s