she
saw the old lay-sister still eyeing her posy with dissatisfaction:
"And, after all, dear Antony," she said, "who shall decide which
flowers shall be dubbed 'weeds'? No plant of His creation, however
humble, was called a 'weed' by the Creator. When, for man's sin, He
cursed the ground, He said: 'Thorns also and thistles shall it cause to
bud.' Well? Sharpest thorns are found around the rose; the thistle is
the royal bloom of Scotland; and, if our old white ass could speak her
mind, doubtless she would call it King of Flowers.

"Nowhere in Holy Books, is any plant named a 'weed.' It is left to man
to proclaim that the flowers he wants not, are weeds.

"Look at each one of these. Could you or I, labouring for years, with
all our skill, make anything so perfect as the meanest of these weeds?

"Nay; they are weeds, because they grow, there where they should not
be. The gorgeous scarlet poppy is a weed amid the corn. If roses
overgrew the wheat, we should dub them weeds, and root them out.

"And some of us have had, perforce, so to deal with the roses in our
lives; those sweet and fragrant things which overgrew our offering of
the wheat of service, our sacrifice of praise and prayer.

"Perhaps, when our weeds are all torn out, and cast in a tangled heap
before His Feet, our Lord beholds in them a garland of choice blossoms.
The crown of thorns on earth, may prove, in Paradise, a diadem of
flowers."

The Prioress laid the posy on the seat beside her.

"Now, Antony, about thy games with peas. There is no wrong in keeping
count with peas of those who daily walk to and from Vespers; though, I
admit, it seems to me, it were easier to count one, two, three, with
folded hands, than to let fall the peas from one hand to the other,
beneath thy scapulary. Howbeit, a method which would be but a pitfall
to one, may prove a prop to another. So I give thee leave to continue
to count with thy peas. Also the games in thy cell are harmless, and
lead me to think, as already I have sometimes thought, that games with
balls or rings, something in which eye guides the hand, and mind the
eye, might be helpful for all, on summer evenings.

"But I cannot have thee take upon thyself to decide the future state of
the White Ladies. Who art thou, to send me to Paradise with a fillip
of thine old finger-nail, yet to keep our excellent Sub-Prioress in
Purgatory? Shame upon thee, Mary Antony!" But the sternness of the
Reverend M