She did not need to go far.

The saintly spirit of Sister Agatha had indeed been translated.

They found her frail body lying prone against the door, the hands
broken and torn by much wild beating upon its studded panels.

She had run to and fro in the dank darkness, beating first upon the
door beneath the Convent cloisters, then upon the door, a mile away,
leading into the Cathedral crypt.

But the nuns were shut into their cells, beyond the cloister; the good
people of Worcester city slept peacefully, not dreaming of the
despairing figure running to and fro beneath them--tottering,
stumbling, falling, arising to fall again, yet hurrying blindly
onwards; and the Cathedral Sacristan, when questioned, confessed that,
hearing cries and rappings coming from the crypt at a late hour, he
speedily locked the outer gate, said an "Ave," and went home to supper;
well knowing that, at such a time, none save spirits of evil would be
wandering below, in so great torment.

Thus, through much tribulation, poor Sister Agatha entered into rest;
being held in deepest reverence ever after.

More than fifty years had gone by. The Prioress of that day, and most
of those who walked in that procession, had long lain beside Sister
Agatha in the Convent burying-ground. But Mary Antony, now oldest of
the lay-sisters, never failed to make careful count, as each veiled
figure passed, nor to impart the mournful reason for this necessity to
all new-comers. So that the nun whose turn it was to walk last in the