ter Ada, in her iciest
fashion. "I think, if you had been anxious for perfection, you would
not have answered me in that proud manner, but would have come here and
entreated my pardon in a proper way. But I am too humble-minded to
insist on it, seeing I am myself the person affronted. Had it been any
one else, I should have required it at once."

"I said--" Margaret got so far, then her brow flushed, and I could see
there was an inward struggle. Then she rose from the form, and laying
down her work, knelt and kissed the ground at Mother Ada's feet. I
could hear Sister Roberga whisper to Sister Philippa, "That
mean-spirited fool!"

Sister Gaillarde said in a softer tone than is her wont,--"_Beati
pauperes spiritu: quoniam ipsorum est regnum caelorum_." [Matthew 5,
verse 3.]

"Thank you, Sister Gaillarde," said Sister Ada, quickly. "I scarcely
expected recognition from _you_."

"You got as much as you expected, then," said Sister Gaillarde, drily,
with a look across at me which almost made me laugh.

"I told you, I got more than I expected," was Sister Ada's answer.

"Did you mean it for her?" asked Joan, in so low a voice that only those
on each side of her could hear.

"I meant it for whoever deserved it," was Sister Gaillarde's reply.

Just then Mother Joan came in and sat down.

"Sister Ada," she said, "Sister Marian tells me, that my Lady has given
orders for that rough black rug that nobody likes to be put on your bed
this week."

"No, has she?" cried Sister Ada, in tones which, if she were delighted,
very much belied her feelings. "How exceedingly annoying! What could
my Lady be thinking of? She knows how I detest that rug. I shall not
be able to sleep a wink. Well! I suppose I must submit; it is my duty.
But I do feel it hard that _all_ the disagreeable things should come to
me. Surely one of the novices might have had that; it would have been
good for somebody whose will was not properly mortified. Really, I _do_
think--Oh, well, I had better not say any more."

Nor did she: but that night, as I was going round the children's
dormitory, little Damia looked up at me.

"Mother, dear, what's the matter with Mother Ada?"

"What did she say, my child?"

"Oh, she didn't say any thing; but she has looked all day long as if she
would like to hit somebody."

"Somebody vexed her a little, perhaps," said I. "Very likely she will
be all right to-morrow."

"I don't know--she takes a long w