ou are. Who knows what you may not accomplish?"

This was a little disconcerting to Mary Corbet; it was not at all what
she had expected. She did not know what to say; and took up the leather
book again and began to turn over the pages. Mistress Margaret went on
serenely with her embroidery, which she had neglected during the last
sentence or two; and there was silence.

"Tell me a little more about the nunnery," said Mary in a minute or two,
leaning back in her chair, with the book on her knees.

"Well, my dear, I scarcely know what to say. It is all far off now like a
childhood. We talked very little; not at all until recreation; except by
signs, and we used to spend a good deal of our time in embroidery. That
is where I learnt this," and she held out her work to Mary for a moment.
It was an exquisite piece of needlework, representing a stag running
open-mouthed through thickets of green twining branches that wrapped
themselves about his horns and feet. Mary had never seen anything quite
like it before.

"What does it mean?" she asked, looking at it curiously.

"_Quemadmodum cervus_,"--began Mistress Margaret; "as the hart brayeth
after the waterbrooks,"--and she took the embroidery and began to go on
with it.--"It is the soul, you see, desiring and fleeing to God, while
the things of the world hold her back. Well, you see, it is difficult to
talk about it; for it is the inner life that is the real history of a
convent; the outer things are all plain and simple like all else."

"Well," said Mary, "is it really true that you were happy?"

The old lady stopped working a moment and looked up at her.

"My dear, there is no happiness in the world like it," she said simply.
"I dream sometimes that we are all back there together, and I wake crying
for joy. The other night I dreamed that we were all in the chapel again,
and that it was a spring morning, with the dawn beginning to show the
painted windows, and that all the tapers were burning; and that mass was
beginning. Not one stall was empty; not even old Dame Gertrude, who died
when I was a novice, was lacking, and Mr. Wickham made us a sermon after
the creed, and showed us the crucifix back in its place again; and told
us that we were all good children, and that Our Lord had only sent us
away to see if we would be patient; and that He was now pleased with us,
and had let us come home again; and that we should never have to go away
again; not even when we died; and