prostrated herself, pressing her forehead against the base of the cross.


At length she rose and moved toward the inner room, where stood her
couch.

But even as she reached the threshold she turned quickly back, and
kneeling before the Virgin and Child clasped the little marble foot of
the Babe, covered it with kisses, and pressed it to her breast.

Then, lifting despairing eyes to the tender face of the Madonna: "O,
Mother of God," she cried, "grant unto me to love the piercèd feet of
thy dear Son crucified, more than I love the little, baby feet of the
Infant Jesus on thy knees."

A great calm fell upon her after this final prayer. It seemed, of a
sudden, more efficacious than all the long hours of vigil. She felt
persuaded that it would be granted.

She rose to her feet, almost too much dazed and too weary to cross to
the inner cell.

A breath of exquisite fragrance filled the air.

At the feet of the Madonna stood a wondrous bouquet of lilies of the
valley and white roses.

Pale but radiant, the Prioress passed into her sleeping-chamber. The
loving heart of old Mary Antony had been full of lilies and roses. It
was not her fault that her old hands had been filled with weeds.