and Mother Ada's voice said,

"_Laus Deo_!" and Sister Ismania's replied, "_Deo gratias_!" Then
Mother Ada's footsteps passed the door as she went to her cell, and once
more all was silence. On rolled the hours slowly, and still Mother
Alianora seemed to sleep: still Margaret stood as if she had been cut in
stone, without so much as moving, and still I sat, feeling much as if I
were stone too, and had no power to move or speak.

It might be about half-way between lauds and prime when the spell was at
last broken. And it was broken, to my astonishment, by Margaret's
asking me a question that fairly took my breath away.

"Annora, art thou a saint?"

These were the first words Margaret had ever spoken to me, except from
necessity. That weary, dried-up thing that I call mine heart, seemed to
give a little bit of throb.

"Our Lady love us, no!" said I. "I never was, nor never could be."

"I am glad to hear it," she said.

"Why, Margaret?"

Oh, how my heart wanted to call her something sweeter! _It_ said, My
darling, my beloved, mine own little sister! But my tongue was all so
unwonted to utter such words that I could not persuade it to say them.

Yet more to my surprise, Margaret came out of the window,--came and
knelt at my feet, and laid her clasped hands on my knee.

"Hadst thou said `Ay,' I should have spoken no more. As thou art not--
Annora, is it true that we twain had one mother?"

Something in Margaret's tone helped me. I took the clasped hands in
mine own.

"It is true, mine own Sister," I said.

"`Sister!' and `Mother!'" she said. "They are words that mean nothing
at all to me. I wonder if God meant them to mean nothing to us? Could
we not have been as good women, and have served Him as well, if we had
dwelt with our own blood, as other maidens do, or even if--"

Her voice died away.

"Margaret," I said, "Mother Ada would say it was wicked, but mine heart
is for ever asking the same questions."

"Is it?" she said eagerly. "O Annora! then thou knowest! I thought,
maybe, thou shouldst count it wicked, and chide me for indulging such
thoughts."

"How could I chide any one, sinner as I am!" said I. "Nay, Margaret, I
doubt not my thoughts have been far unholier than thine. Thou
rememberest not, I am sure; but ere we were professed, I was
troth-plight unto a young noble, and always that life that I have lost
flitteth afore me, as a bird that held a jewel in his beak might lure me
on