began to do, not according to Sister Mary Augustine's hard task, but
according to mine own heart's promptings. Yet, when the posy was
finished, alack-a-day! it was a posy of weeds!"

Tears filled the eyes of the Prioress; at first she could not trust her
voice to make reply.

Then, stooping she picked up the nosegay.

"Our Lady shall have it," she said. "I will place it before her
shrine, in mine own cell. She will understand--knowing how often,
though the hands perforce do weeding, yet, all the time, the heart is
gathering choicest flowers.

"Aye, and sometimes when we bring to God offerings of fairest flowers,
He sees but worthless weeds. And, when we mourn, because we have but
weeds to offer, He sees them fragrant blossoms. Whatever, to the eye
of man, the hand may hold, God sees therein the bouquet of the heart's
intention."

The Prioress paused, a look of great gladness on her face; then, as she
saw the old lay-sister still eyeing her posy with dissatisfaction:
"And, after all, dear Antony," she said, "who shall decide which
flowers shall be dubbed 'weeds'? No plant of His creation, however
humble, was called a 'weed' by the Creator. When, for man's sin, He
cursed the ground, He said: 'Thorns also and thistles shall it cause to
bud.' Well? Sharpest thorns are found around the rose; the thistle is
the royal bloom of Scotland; and, if our old white ass could speak her
mind, doubtless she would call it King of Flowers.