ion, before the figure of the
Virgin Mother holding upon her knees the holy Babe.

Moonlight flooded the cell with a pure radiance.

Mary Antony's posy of weeds, offered, according to promise, at the
Virgin's shrine, took on, in that silver splendour, the semblance of
lilies and roses.

The Prioress knelt long, with clasped hands and bowed head, as white
and as motionless as the marble before her. But at length she lifted
her face, and broke into low pleading.

"Mother of God," she said, "help this poor aching heart; still the wild
hunger at my breast. Make me content to be at one with the Divine, and
to let Nature go. . . . Thou knowest it is not the _man_ I want. In
all the long years since he played traitor to his troth to me, I have
not wanted the man. The woman he wed may have him, unbegrudged by me.
I do not envy her the encircling of his arms, though time was when I
felt them strong and tender. I do not want the man, but--O, sweet
Mother of God--I want the man's little child! I envy her the
motherhood which, but for her, would have been mine. . . . I want the
soft dark head against my breast. . . . I want sweet baby lips drawing
fresh life from mine. . . . I want the little feet, resting together
in my hand. . . . All Nature sings of life, and the power to bestow
life. Yet mine arms are empty, and my strength does but carry mine own
self to and fro. . . . Oh, give me grace to turn my thoughts from Life
to Sacrifice."

The Prioress rose, crossed the floor, and knelt long in prayer and
contemplation before the crucifix.

The moonlight fell upon the dying face of the suffering Saviour, upon
the crown of thorns, the helpless arms out-stretched, the bleeding feet.

O, Infinite Redeemer! O, mighty Sacrifice! O, Love of God, made
manifest!

The Prioress knelt long in adoring contemplation. At intervals she
prostrated herself, pressing her forehead against the base of the cross.

At length she rose and moved toward the inner room, where stood her
couch.

But even as she reached the threshold she turned quickly back, and
kneeling before the Virgin and Child clasped the little marble foot of
the Babe, covered it with kisses, and pressed it to her breast.

Then, lifting despairing eyes to the tender face of the Madonna: "O,
Mother of God," she cried, "grant unto me to love the pierced feet of
thy dear Son crucified, more than I love the little, baby feet of the
Infant Jesus on thy knees."