sister?"
she wished to know. "Pardon me, Father; I shall pray for his soul, of
course. What could I do more?"

And the Prior recognised at last that to the one treasure of that dead
man's heart, the news he brought was less than it had been to him.

He bit his lips severely. It was all he could do to keep from telling
her that the pure, meek, self-abnegating soul which had passed from
earth demanded far fewer prayers than the cold, hard, selfish spirit
which dwelt within her own black habit.

"It is I who require pardon, Sister," he said, in a constrained voice.
"May our Lord in His mercy forgive us all!"

He made no further attempt to converse with Mother Margaret. But, as he
passed her a few minutes later, he heard that she and Sister Regina had
gone back to the previous subject, which they were discussing with some
interest in their tones.

"O woman, woman!" groaned the Prior, in his heart; "the patch on Sister
Maud's elbow is more to thee than all the love thou hast lost. Ah, my
dear Lord! it is not you that I mourn. You are far better hence."

From which speech it will be seen that the Bonus Homo was very far from
being a perfect monk.

The actions of Mother Margaret admirably matched her words. She gave
herself heart and soul to the important business of securing her
miserable third of her dead lord's lands and goods. Not till they were
safe in her possession did she allow herself any rest.

Did the day ever come when her feelings changed? During the ten years
which she outlived the man who had loved her with every fibre of his
warm, great heart, did her heart ever turn regretfully, when Abbesses
were harsh or life was miserable, to the thought of that tender,
faithful love which, so far as in it lay, would have sheltered her life
from every breath of discomfort? Did she ever in all those ten years
whisper to herself--

"Oh, if he would but come again,
I think I'd vex him so no more!"

Did she ever murmur such words as--

"I was not worthy of you, Douglas,
Not half worthy the like of you!"

...words which, honestly sobbed forth in very truth, would have been far
nearer real penitence than all the "acts of contrition" which passed her
lips day by day.

God knoweth. Men will never know. But all history and experience tend
to assure us that women such as Margaret de Clare usually die as they
have lived, and that of all barriers to penitence and conversion there
is none so hard to