not such unbroken bliss as where it is.
But when the rule of holy obedience is fully followed out, so that we
have no will whatever except that of our superiors, you cannot imagine
what sweet peace flows into the soul. Now, if Father Benedict were to
command me any thing, I should be positively delighted to do it, because
it was a command from my superior. It would not in the least matter
what it was. Nay, the more repugnant it was to my natural inclinations,
the more it would delight me."

Joan's eyes wandered to two or three other faces, with a look which
said, "Do you agree to this?"

"Don't look at me!" said Sister Gaillarde. "I'm no seraph. It wouldn't
please me a bit better to have dirty work to do because Father Benedict
ordered it. I can't reach those heights of perfection--never understood
them. If Sister Ada do, I'm glad to hear it. She must have learned it
lately."

"I do not understand it, as Sister Ada puts it," said I, as Joan's eyes
came to me. "I understand what it is to give up one's will in any thing
when it seems to be contrary to the will of God, and to have more real
pleasure in trying to please Him than in pleasing one's self. I
understand, too, that there may be more true peace in bearing a sorrow
wherein God helps and comforts you, than in having no sorrow and no
comfort. But Sister Ada seems to mean something different--as if one
were to be absolutely without any will about any thing, and yet to
delight in the crossing of one's will. Now, if I have not any wall, I
do not see how it is to be crossed. And to have none whatever would
surely make me something different from a woman and a sinner. I should
be like a harp that could be played on--not like a living creature at
all."

Two or three little nods came from Sister Gaillarde.

"People who have no wills are very trying to deal with," said Margaret.

"People who have wills are," said Sister Philippa.

"Nay," said Margaret, "if I am to be governed, let it be by one that has
a will. `Do this,' and `Go there,' may be vexatious at times: but far
worse is it to ask for direction, and hear only, `As you like,' `I don't
know,' `Don't ask me.'"

"Now that is just what I should like," said Sister Philippa. "I never
get it, worse luck!"

"Did you mean me, Sister Margaret?" said Sister Ada, stiffly.

"I cry you mercy, Mother; I was not thinking of you at all," answered
Margaret.

"It sounded very much as if you were," said Sis