The bowed head of Sister Wynfreda sank lower, and slowly the heaving of her
breast was stilled. In the chapel four feeble old voices raised a chant that
trembled and shook like a quivering heart-string.

"I beseech thee now,
Lord of Heaven,
And pray to thee,
Best of human-born,
That thou pity me,
Mighty Lord!
And aid me,
Father Almighty,
That I thy will
May perform
Before from this frail life
I depart."

Tremulously sweet it drifted out over the garden and blended with the aroma in
the air. The wounded man smiled through his pain.

Raising her tear-stained face at last, Sister Wynfreda said humbly, "God
pardon me if I sin in my grief, but to me it seems so bitter a thing when
trouble comes upon the young. The first fall of the young bird in its flight,
the first blow that startles the young horse,--I flinch before them as before
my own wounds. When the light of the fair young day dies before the noon, I
feel the shadow in my heart; and it saddens me to find a flower that worms
have eaten in the bud and robbed of its brief life in the sun. How much more,
then, shall I grieve for the blighting of this human flower? I declare with
truth that the first time I saw her my heart went out to her in a love which
taught me how mothers feel. Her freshness and gladness have fed my starved