and as motionless as the marble before her. But at length she lifted
her face, and broke into low pleading.

"Mother of God," she said, "help this poor aching heart; still the wild
hunger at my breast. Make me content to be at one with the Divine, and
to let Nature go. . . . Thou knowest it is not the _man_ I want. In
all the long years since he played traitor to his troth to me, I have
not wanted the man. The woman he wed may have him, unbegrudged by me.
I do not envy her the encircling of his arms, though time was when I
felt them strong and tender. I do not want the man, but--O, sweet
Mother of God--I want the man's little child! I envy her the
motherhood which, but for her, would have been mine. . . . I want the
soft dark head against my breast. . . . I want sweet baby lips drawing
fresh life from mine. . . . I want the little feet, resting together
in my hand. . . . All Nature sings of life, and the power to bestow
life. Yet mine arms are empty, and my strength does but carry mine own
self to and fro. . . . Oh, give me grace to turn my thoughts from Life
to Sacrifice."

The Prioress rose, crossed the floor, and knelt long in prayer and
contemplation before the crucifix.

The moonlight fell upon the dying face of the suffering Saviour, upon
the crown of thorns, the helpless arms out-stretched, the bleeding feet.

O, Infinite Redeemer! O, mighty Sacrifice! O, Love of God, made
manifest!


The Prioress knelt long in adoring contemplation. At intervals she