above the entrance.

In that little chapel was one Figure, and one Figure only. No pictured
saints were there. No image of our Lady. No crucifix hung on the wall.

But, in a niche above the altar, stood a wondrous figure of the Christ;
not dying, not dead; not glorified and ascending; but the Christ as
very man, walking the earth in human form, yet calmly, unmistakably,
triumphantly Divine. The marble form was carved by the same hand as
the Madonna which the Bishop had brought from Rome, and placed in
Mora's cell at the Convent. It had been his gift to his old friend the
Hermit. At first sight of it, Mora remembered hearing it described by
the Bishop himself. Then the beauty of the sculpture took hold upon
her, and she forgot all else.

It lived! The face wore a look of searching tenderness; on the lips, a
smile of loving comprehension; in the out-stretched hands, an attitude
of infinite compassion.

Mora fell upon her knees. Instinctively she recalled the earnest
injunction of Father Gervaise to his penitents that, when kneeling
before the crucifix, they should repeat: "He ever liveth to make
intercession for us." And, strangely enough, there came back with this
the remembrance of the wild voice of Mary Seraphine, shrieking, when
told to contemplate the dying Redeemer: "I want life--not death!"

Here was Life indeed! Here was the Saviour of the world, in mortal
guise, the Word made manifest.

Mora lifted her eyes and read the words, illumined in letters of gold
around the arch of the niche, gleaming in the sunlight above the
patient head of the Man Divine.

"IN ALL POINTS TEMPTED LIKE AS WE ARE, YET WITHOUT SIN."

And higher still, above the arch:

"A GREAT HIGH PRIEST. . . . PASSED INTO THE HEAVENS."

In the silence and stillness of that utter solitude, she who had so
lately been Prioress of the White Ladies kneeled and worshipped.

The Unseen Presence drew nearer.

She closed her eyes to the sculptured form.

The touch of her Lord was upon her heart.

She had prayed in her cell that His pierced feet nailed to the wood
might become as dear to her as the Baby feet on the Virgin Mother's
knees. In her anguish of cloistered sorrow, that prayer had been
granted.

But out in the world of living men and things, she needed more. She
needed Feet that walked and moved, passed in and out of house and home;
paused by the hearth; went to the wedding feast; moved to the fresh
closed grave; Feet tha