ge-gift from the Queen that then was. Well I remember
Mother Guendolen's words--`I sware to part from this cross alone with
life, and the Master granted me to keep it when I entered the Order.'
Then the fire died out of her eyes, and her voice fell low, and she
added--`ah, my sister! dost thou envy me Christ's cross?' Ay, she had
carried more of that cross than most. She came here about the age thou
didst, Annora--a little child of six years."

"Who was she in the world, Mother?" quoth Sister Nora.

I was surprised to see Mother Alianora glance round the room, as if to
see who was there, afore she answered. Nor did she answer for a moment.

"She was Sister Guendolen of Sempringham: let that satisfy thee. Maybe,
in the world above, she is that which she should have been in this
world, and was not."

And I could not but wonder if Mother Guendolen's life had held a _might
have been_ like mine.

I want to know what `carnal' and `worldly' mean. They are words which I
hear very often, and always with condemnation: but they seem to mean
quite different things, in the lips of different speakers. When Mother
Ada uses them, they mean having affection in one's heart for any thing,
or any person, that is not part of holy Church. When Mother Gaillarde
speaks them, they mean caring for any thing that she does not care for--
and that includes everything except power, and grandeur, and the Order
of Saint Gilbert. And when Mother Alianora says them, they fall softly
on the ear, as if they meant not love, nor happiness, nor any thing good
and innocent, but simply all that could grieve our Lord and hurt a soul
that loved Him. They are, with her, just the opposite of Jesus Christ.

Oh, if only our blessed Lord had been on earth now, and I might have
gone on pilgrimage to the place where He was! If I could have asked Him
all the questions that perplex me, and laid at His feet all the sorrows
that trouble me! For I do not think He would have commanded the saints
to chase me away because I maybe have poorer wits than other women,--He
who let the mothers bring the babes to Him: I fancy He would have been
patient and gentle, even with me. I scarce think He would have treated
sorrow--even wrong or mistaken sorrow, if only it were real--as some do,
with cold looks, and hard words, and gibes that take so much bearing. I
suppose He would have told me wherein I sinned, but I think He would
have done it gently, so as not to hurt mo