The White Ladies of Worcester. Florence L. Barclay

sternly upon

       Sister Seraphine.

      "You are playing false to your vows," she said; "you are slighting your vocation; yet no worthy or noble feeling draws your heart back to the world. You do but desire vain pomp and show; all those things which minister to the enthronement of self. Return to your cell and spend three hours in prayer and penitence before the crucifix."

      The Prioress lifted her hand and pointed to the figure of the Christ, hanging upon the great rugged cross against the wall, facing the door. The sublimity of a supreme adoration was in her voice, as she made her last appeal.

      "Surely," she said, "surely no love of self can live, in view of the death and sacrifice of our blessèd Lord! Kneel then before the crucifix and learn——"

      But the over-wrought mind of Sister Seraphine, suddenly convinced of the futility of its hopeless rebellion, passed, in that moment, altogether beyond control.

      With a shout of wild laughter, she flung back her head, pointing with outstretched finger at the crucifix.

      "Death! Death! Death!" she shrieked, "helpless, hopeless, terrible!

       I ask for life, I want to live; I am young, I am gay, I am beautiful.

       And they bid—bid—bid me kneel—long hours—watching death." Her

       voice rose to a piercing scream. "Ah, HA! That will I NOT! A dead

       God cannot help me! I want life, not death!"

      Shrieking she leapt to her feet, flew across the room, beat upon the sacred Form with her fists; tore at It with her fingers.

      One instant of petrifying horror. Then the Prioress was upon her.

      Seizing her by both wrists she flung her to the floor, then pulled a rope passing over a pulley in the wall, which started the great alarm-bell, in the passage, clanging wildly.

      At once there came a rush of flying feet; calls for the Sub-Prioress; but she was already there.

      When they flung wide the door, lo, the Prioress stood—with white face and blazing eyes, her arms outstretched—between them and the crucifix.

      Upon the floor, a crumpled heap, lay Sister Mary Seraphine.

      The nuns, in a frightened crowd, filled the doorway, none daring to speak, or to enter; till old Mary Antony, pushing past the Sub-Prioress, kneeled down beside the Reverend Mother, and, lifting the hem of her robe, kissed it and pressed it to her breast.

      Slowly the Prioress let fall her arms.

      "Enter," she said; and they flocked in.

      "Sister Seraphine," said the Prioress, in awful tones, "has profaned the crucifix, reviling our blessèd Lord, Who hangs thereon."

      All the nuns, falling upon their knees, hid their faces in their hands.

      There was a terrifying quality in the silence of the next moments.

      Slowly the Prioress turned, prostrated herself at the foot of the cross, and laid her forehead against the floor at its base. Then the nuns heard one deep, shuddering sob.

      Not a head was lifted. The only nun who peeped was Sister Mary

       Seraphine, prone upon the floor.

      After a while, the Prioress arose, pale but calm.

      "Carry her to her cell," she said.

      Two tall nuns to whom she made sign lifted Sister Seraphine, and bore her out.

      When the shuffling of their feet died away in the distance, the

       Prioress gave further commands.

      "All will now go to their cells and kneel in adoration before the crucifix. Doors are to be left standing wide. The Miserere is to be chanted, until the ringing of the Refectory bell. Mother Sub-Prioress will remain behind."

      The nuns dispersed, as quickly as they had gathered; seeking their cells, like frightened birds fleeing before a gathering storm.

      The tall nuns who had carried Sister Seraphine returned and waited outside the Reverend Mother's door.

      The Prioress stood alone; a tragic figure in her grief.

      Mother Sub-Prioress drew near. Her narrow face, peering from out her veil, more than ever resembled a ferret. Her small eyes gleamed with a merciless light.

      "Is mine the task, Reverend Mother?" she whispered.

      The Prioress inclined her head.

      Mother Sub-Prioress murmured a second question.

      The Prioress turned and looked at the crucifix.

      "Yes," she said, firmly.

      Mother Sub-Prioress sidled nearer; then whispered her third question.

      The Prioress did not answer. She was looking at the carved, oaken stool, overthrown. She was wondering whether she could have acted with better judgment, spoken more wisely. Her heart was sore. Such noble natures ever blame themselves for the wrong-doing of the worthless.

      Receiving no reply, Mother Sub-Prioress whispered a suggestion.

      "No," said the Prioress.

      Mother Sub-Prioress modified her suggestion.

      The Prioress turned and looked at the tender figure of the Madonna, brooding over the blessèd Babe.

      "No," said the Prioress.

      Mother Sub-Prioress frowned, and made a further modification; but in tones which suggested finality.

      The Prioress inclined her head.

      The Sub-Prioress, bowing low, lifted the hem of the Reverend Mother's veil, and kissed it; then passed from the room.

      The Prioress moved to the window.

      The sunset was over. The evening star shone, like a newly-lighted lamp, in a pale purple sky. The fleet-winged swallows had gone to rest.

      Bats flitted past the casement, like homeless souls who know not where to go.

      Low chanting began in the cells; the nuns, with open doors, singing Miserere.

      But, as she looked at the evening star, the Prioress heard again, with startling distinctness, the final profanity of poor Sister Seraphine: "I want life—not death!"

      Along the corridor passed a short procession, on its way to the cell of

       Mary Seraphine.

      First went a nun, carrying a lighted taper.

      Next, the two tall nuns who had borne Mary Seraphine to her cell.

      Behind them, Mother Sub-Prioress, holding something beneath her scapulary which gave to her more of a presence than she usually possessed.

      Solemn and official—nay, almost sacrificial—was their measured shuffle, as they moved along the passage, and entered the cell of Mary Seraphine.

      The Prioress closed her door, and, kneeling before the crucifix, implored forgiveness for the sacrilege which, all unwittingly, she had provoked.

      The nuns, in their separate cells, chanted the Miserere. But—suddenly—with one accord, their voices fell silent; then hastened on, in uncertain, agitated rhythm.

      Old Mary Antony below, playing her favourite game, also paused, and pricked up her ears: then filliped the wizen pea, which stood for Mother Sub-Prioress, into the darkest corner, and hurried off to brew a soothing balsam.

      So, when the Refectory bell had summoned all to the evening meal, the old lay-sister crept to the cell of Mary Seraphine, carrying broth and comfort.

      But Sister Seraphine was better content than she had been for many weeks.

      At last she had become the centre of attention; and, although, during the visit of Mother Sub-Prioress to her cell, this had been a peculiarly painful position to occupy,