accompanying peals of thunder passed, before
the Prioress moved or spoke. Then raising Mary Antony she placed her
in a chair, disengaged her robe from the shaking hands, passed out into
the cell passage, and herself sounded the call to silence and prayer.

Returning to her cell she shut the door, poured out a cordial and put
it to the trembling lips of Mary Antony. Then taking a seat just
opposite, she looked with calm eyes at the lay-sister.

"What means this story?" said the Prioress.

"Reverend Mother, twenty holy Ladies went----"

"I know. And twenty returned."

"Aye," said the old woman more firmly, nettled out of her
speechlessness; "twenty returned; and twenty peas I dropped from hand
to hand. Then--when no pea remained--yet another White Lady glided by;
and with her went an icy wind, and around her came the blackness of the
storm.

"Down the steps I fled, locked the door, and took the key. How I
mounted again, I know not. As I drew level with the cloisters, I saw
that twenty-first White Lady, for whom--Saint Peter knows--I held no
pea, passing from the cloisters into the cell passage. As I hastened
on, fain to see whither she went, a blinding flash, like an evil
twisting snake, shot betwixt her and me. When I could see again, she
was gone. I fled to the Reverend Mother, and ran in on the roar of the
thunder."

"Saw you her face, Mary Antony?"

"Nay, Reverend Mother. But, of late, the holy Ladies mostly walk by
with their faces shrouded."

"I know. Now, see here, dear Antony. Two peas dropped together, the
while you counted one."

"Nay, Reverend Mother. Twenty peas dropped one by one; also I counted
twenty White Ladies. And, after I had counted twenty, yet another
passed."

"But how could that be?" objected the Prioress. "If twenty went, but
twenty could return. Who should be the twenty-first?"

Then old Mary Antony leaned forward, crossing herself.

"Sister Agatha," she whispered, tremulously. "Poor Sister Agatha
returned to us again."

But, even as she said it, swift came a name to the mind of the
Prioress, answering her own question, and filling her with
consternation and a great anger. "Wilfred! Wilfred, are you come to
save me?" foolish little Seraphine had said. Was such sacrilege
possible? Could one from the outside world have dared to intrude into
their holy Sanctuary?

Yet old Antony's tale carried conviction. Her abject fear was now
explained.

That the Dead