PART THREE, CHAPTER 2.

SISTER MARGARET.

"Do I not know
The life of woman is full of woe?
Toiling on and on and on,
With breaking heart, and tearful eyes,
And silent lips--and in the soul
The secret longings that arise,
Which this world never satisfies?"

Longfellow.

Mother Alianora was lying in her bed when I entered the Infirmary, just
under the window, where the soft light of the low autumn sun came in and
lit up her pillow and her dear old face. She smiled when she saw me.

There was another Sister in the room, who was stirring a pan over the
fire, and at first I scarcely noticed her. I went up to the dear
Mother, and asked her how she was.

"Well, my child," she said, tenderly. "Nearly at Home."

Something came up in my throat that would not let me speak.

"Hast thou been sent to relieve Sister Marian?" she asked.

"I know not," said I, after a moment's struggle with myself: then,
remembering what I had been bidden, I added, "Mother Gaillarde bade me
come."

We sat silent for a few moments. Sister Marian poured out the broth and
brought it to the Mother, and I supported her while she drank a little
of it. She could not take much.

Just before the bell rang for compline, Mother Ada came in.

"I bring an order from my Lady," said she. "Sister Marian will be
relieved after compline by another Sister, who will be sent up. Sister
Annora is to stay with the sick Mother during compline, and both she and
the Sister who then comes will keep watch during the night."

I was surprised. I never knew any case of sickness, unless it were
something very severe and urgent, allowed to interfere with a Sister's
attendance at compline. But I was glad enough to stay.

Mother Ada went away again after her orders were given, and Sister
Marian followed her when the bell rang. As soon as the little sounds of
the Sisters' footsteps had died away, and we knew they were all shut in
the oratory, Mother Alianora, in a faint voice, bade me bring a stool
beside her bed and sit down.

"Annora," said she, in that feeble voice, "my child, thou art fifty
years old, yet I think of thee as a child still. And in many respects
thou art so. It has been thy lot, whether for good or evil--which, who
knoweth save God?--to be safe sheltered from very much of the ill that
is in the world. But I doubt not, at times, questionings will arise in
thy heart, whether the good may not have been shut out too. Is it