set: and always
the one in east and the other in west. I think he must be sore, sore
weary, for he hath been at it over five thousand years."

Sister Roberga and Sister Philippa laughed. Mother Alianora did not
laugh. A soft, rather sorrowful, sort of smile came on her aged face.

"Art thou so weary, my daughter, that the thought grew therefore?" saith
she.

Something came into Margaret's eyes for a moment, but it was out again,
almost before I could see it. I knew not what it was; Margaret's eyes
are yet a puzzle to me. They are very dark eyes, but they are different
in their look from all the other dark eyes in the house. Sister Olive
has eyes quite as dark; but they say nothing. Margaret's eyes talk so
much that she might do very well without her tongue. Not that I always
understand what they say; the language in which they speak is generally
a foreign one to me. I fancy Mother Alianora can read it better. I
listened for Margaret's reply.

"Dear Mother, is not weariness the lot of all humanity, and more
especially of women?"

"Mary love us!" cries Philippa. "What gibberish you talk, Sister
Margaret!"

"Sister Philippa will come here and ask Sister Margaret's forgiveness at
once," saith Mother Gaillarde, the sub-Prioress.

Sister Philippa banged down her battledore on the table, and marching
up, knelt before Margaret and asked forgiveness, making a face behind
her back as soon as she had turned.

"Sister Philippa will take no cheese at supper," added the sub-Prioress.

Sister Philippa pulled another face--a very ugly one; it reminded me
somewhat too much of the carved figure of the Devil with his mouth
gaping on the Prior's stall in our Abbey Church. That and Sister
Philippa's faces are the ugliest things I ever saw, except the Cellarer,
and he looks so good-tempered that one forgets his ugliness.

"Sister Philippa is not weary, as it should seem," saith Mother
Alianora, again with her quiet smile. "Otherwise, to speak thereof
should scarcely seem gibberish to her."

I spoke not, but I thought it was in no wise gibberish to me. For I
never had that vocation which alone should make nuns. Not God, but man,
forced this veil upon me; for, ah me! I was meant for another life.
And that other life, that should have been mine, I never cease to long
for and to mourn over.

Only six years old was I--for though my seventh birthday was near, it
was not past--when I was thrust into this house of rel