"Thou art better, dear Antony," said the Prioress. "They tell me thy strength has returned, and this strange fainting is over. Thou must lie still yet awhile; but will it weary thee to speak?"

"Nay, Reverend Mother, I should dearly love to speak. My soul is full of wonder; yet to none saving to you, Reverend Mother, can I tell of that which I have seen."

"Tell me all, dear Antony," said the Prioress. "Sister Mary Rebecca says thy symptoms point to a Divine Vision."

Mary Antony chuckled. "For once Sister Mary Rebecca speaks the truth,"

she said. "Have patience with me, Reverend Mother, and I will tell you all."

The Prioress gently stroked the worn hands lying outside the coverlet.

Mary Antony looked very old in bed. Were it not for the bright twinkling eyes, she looked too old ever again to stand upon her feet. Yet how she still bustled upon those same old feet! How diligently she performed her own duties, and shewed to the other lay-sisters how they should have performed theirs!

Forty years ago, she had chosen her nook in the Convent burying-ground.

She was even then, among the older members of the Community; yet most of those who saw her choose it, now lay in their own.

"She will outlive us all," said Mother Sub-Prioress one day, sourly; angered by some trick of Mary Antony's.

"She is like an ancient parrot," cried Sister Mary Rebecca, anxious to agree with Mother Sub-Prioress.

Which when Mary Antony heard, she chuckled, and snapped her fingers.

"Please G.o.d, I shall live long enough," she said, "to thrust Mother Sub-Prioress into a sackcloth shroud; also, to crack nuts upon the sepulchre of Sister Mary Rebecca."

But none of these remarks reached the Prioress. She loved the old lay-sister, knowing the aged body held a faithful and zealous heart, and a mind which, in its quaint simplicity, oft seemed to the Prioress like the mind of a little child--and of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.

"There is no need for patience, dear Antony," said the Prioress. "I can sit in stillness beside thee, until thy tale be fully told. Begin at the beginning."

The slanting rays of the late afternoon sun, piercing through the narrow window, fell in a golden band of light upon the folded hands, lighting up the aged face with an almost unearthly radiance.

"I was in the cloisters," began Mary Antony, "awaiting the return from Vespers of the holy Ladies.

"I go there betimes, because at that hour I am accustomed to hold converse with a little vain man in a red jerkin, who comes to see me, when he knows me to be alone. I tell him tales such as he never hears elsewhere. To-day I planned to tell him how the great Lord Bishop, arriving unannounced, rode into the courtyard; and, seeing old Antony standing in the doorway, mistook her for the Reverend Mother. That was a great moment in the life of Mary Antony, and confers upon her added dignity.

"'So turn out thy toes, and make thy best bow, and behave thee as a little layman should behave in the presence of one who hath been mistaken for one holding so high an office in Holy Church.'

"Thus," explained Mary Antony, "had I planned to strike awe into the little red breast of that over-bold robin."

"And came the robin to the cloisters?" inquired the Prioress, presently, for Mary Antony lay upon her pillow laughing to herself, nodding and bowing, and making her fingers hop to and fro on the coverlet, as a bird might hop with toes out turned. Nor would she be recalled at once to the happenings of the afternoon.

"The great Lord Bishop did address me as 'worthy Mother,'" she remarked; "not 'Reverend Mother,' as we address our n.o.ble Prioress. And this has given me much food for thought. Is it better to be worthy and not reverend, or reverend and not worthy? Our large white sow, when she did contrive to have more little pigs in her litters, than ever our sows had before; and, after a long and fruitful life, furnished us with two excellent hams, a boar's head, and much bacon, was a worthy sow; but never was she reverend, not even when Mother Sub-Prioress p.r.o.nounced the blessing over her face, much beautified by decoration--grand ivory tusks, and a lemon in her mouth! Never, in life, had she looked so fair; which is indeed, I believe, the case with many. Yet, for all her worthiness, she was not reverend. Also I have heard tell of a certain Prior, not many miles from here, who, borrowing money, never repays it; who oppresses the poor, driving them from the Priory gate; who maltreats the monks, and is kind unto none, saving unto himself. He--it seems--is reverend but not worthy. While thou, Master Redbreast, art certainly not reverend; the saints, and thine own conscience, alone know whether thou art worthy.

"This," explained Mary Antony, "was how I had planned to point a moral to that jaunty little worldling."

"They who are reverend must strive to be also worthy," said the Prioress; "while they who count themselves to be worthy, must think charitably of those to whom they owe reverence. Came the robin to thee in the cloisters, Antony?"

The old woman's manner changed. She fixed her eyes upon the Prioress, and spoke with an air of detachment and of mystery. The very simplicity of her language seemed at once to lift the strange tale she told, into sublimity.

"Aye, he came. But not for crumbs; not for cheese; not to gossip with old Antony.

"He stood upon the coping, looking at me with his bright eye.

"'Well, little vain man!' said I. But he moved not.

"'Well, Master Pieman,' I said, 'art come to spy on holy ladies?' But never a flutter, never a chirp, gave he.

"So grave and yet war-like was his aspect, that at length I said: 'Well, Knight of the b.l.o.o.d.y Vest! Hast thou come to carry off again our n.o.ble Prioress?' Upon which, instantly, he lifted up his voice, and burst into song; then flew to the doorway, turning and chirping, as if asking me to follow.

"Greatly marvelling at this behaviour on the part of the little bird I love, I forthwith set out to follow him.

"Along the pa.s.sage, on swift wing, he flew; in and out of the empty cells, as if in search of something.' Then, while I was yet some little way behind, he vanished into the Reverend Mother's cell, and came not forth again.

"Laughing to myself at such presumption, I followed, saying: 'Ha, thou Knight of the b.l.o.o.d.y Vest! What doest thou there? The Reverend Mother is away. What seekest thou in her chamber, Knight of the b.l.o.o.d.y Vest?'

"But, reaching the doorway, at that moment, I found myself struck dumb by what I saw.

"No robin was there, but a most splendid Knight, in shining armour, kneeled upon his knees before the shrine of our Lady. A blood-red cross was on his breast. His dark head was uplifted. On his n.o.ble face was a look of pleading and of prayer.

"Marvelling, but unafraid, I crept in, and kneeled behind that splendid Knight. The look of pleading upon his face, inclined me also to prayer.

His lips moved, as I had seen at the first; but while I stood upon my feet, I could hear no words. As soon as I too kneeled, I heard the Knight saying: 'Give her to me! Give her to me!' And at last: 'Mother of G.o.d, send her to me! Take pity on a hungry heart, a lonely home, a desolate hearth, and send her to me!'"

Mary Antony paused, fixing her eyes upon the rosy strip of sky, seen through her narrow window. Absorbed in the recital of her vision, she appeared to have forgotten the presence of the Prioress. She paused; and there was silence in the cell, for the Prioress made no sound.

Presently the old voice went on, once more.

"When the splendid Knight said: 'Send her to me,' a most wondrous thing did happen.

"Our blessed Lady, lifting her head, looked toward the door. Then raising her hand, she beckoned.

"No sooner did our Lady beckon, than I heard steps coming along the pa.s.sage--that pa.s.sage which I knew to be empty. The Knight heard them, also; for his heart began to beat so loudly that--kneeling behind--I could hear it.

"Our blessed Lady smiled.

"Then--in through the doorway came the Reverend Mother, walking with her head held high, and sunlight in her eyes, as I have ofttimes seen her walk in the garden in Springtime, when the birds are singing, and a scent of lilac is all around.

"She did not see old Mary Antony; but moving straight to where the Knight was kneeling, kneeled down beside him.

"Then the splendid Knight did hold out his hand. But the Reverend Mother's hands were clasped upon the cross at her breast, and she would not put her hand into the Knight's; but lifting her eyes to our Lady she said: 'Holy Mother of G.o.d, except thou thyself send me to him, I cannot go."

"And again the Knight said: 'Give her to me! Give her to me! Blessed Virgin, give her to me!'

"And the tears ran down the face of old Antony, because both those n.o.ble hearts were wrung with anguish. Yet only the merry Babe, peeping over the two bowed heads, saw that old Antony was there.

"Then a wondrous thing did happen.

"Stooping from her marble throne our Lady leaned, and taking the Reverend Mother's hand in hers, placed it herself in the outstretched hand of the Knight.

"At once a sound like many chimes of silver bells filled the air, and a voice, so wonderful that I did fall upon my face to the floor, said: