A great calm fell upon her after this final prayer. It seemed, of a
sudden, more efficacious than all the long hours of vigil. She felt
persuaded that it would be granted.

She rose to her feet, almost too much dazed and too weary to cross to
the inner cell.

A breath of exquisite fragrance filled the air.

At the feet of the Madonna stood a wondrous bouquet of lilies of the
valley and white roses.

Pale but radiant, the Prioress passed into her sleeping-chamber. The
loving heart of old Mary Antony had been full of lilies and roses. It
was not her fault that her old hands had been filled with weeds.
Divine Love, understanding, had wrought this gracious miracle.

As the Prioress stretched herself upon her couch, she murmured softly:
"The Lord seeth not as man seeth: for man looketh on the outward
appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.

"And, after all, this miracle of the Divine perception doth take place
daily.

"Alas, when our vaunted roses and lilies appear, in His sight, as mere
worthless weeds.

"The Lord looketh on the heart."

* * * * * *

When the Prioress awoke, the sunlight filled her chamber.

She hastened to the archway between the cells, and looked.

The dandelions seemed more gaily golden, in the morning light. The
bindweed had faded.

The Prioress was disappointed. She had counted upon sending early for
old Mary Antony. She had pictured her bewildered joy. Yet now the
nosegay was as before.

Morning light is ever a test for transformations. Things are apt to
look again as they were.

But a fragrance of roses and lilies still lingered in the chamber.

The blessed Virgin smiled upon the Babe.

And there was peace in the heart of the Prioress. Her long vigil, her
hours of prayer, had won for her the sense of a calm certainty of
coming victory.

Strong in that certainty, she bent, and gently kissed the little feet
of the holy Babe.

Then, as was her wont, she sounded the bell which called the entire
community to arise, and to begin a new day.

CHAPTER VIII

ON THE WINGS OF THE STORM

In the afternoon of that day, Mary Antony awaited, in the cloisters,
the return of the White Ladies from Vespers. Twenty only, had gone;
and, fearful lest she should make mistake with the unusual number, the
old lay-sister spent the time of waiting in counting the twenty peas
afresh, passing them back and forth from one hand to the other.