CHAPTER XVII.
THE DIMNESS OF MARY ANTONY The Prioress had been back in her cell for nearly an hour, when a gentle tap came on the door.
"Enter," commanded the Prioress, and Mary Antony appeared, bearing broth and bread, fruit and a cup of wine.
The Prioress sat at her table, parchment and an open missal before her.
Her face was very white; also there were dark shadows beneath her eyes.
She did not smile at sight of old Antony, thus laden.
"How now, Antony ?" she said, almost sternly.

"I did not bid thee to bring me food." "Reverend Mother," said the old lay-sister, in a voice which strove to be steady, yet quavered; "for long hours you have studied, not heeding that the evening meal was over.

Chide not old Antony for bringing you some of that broth, which you like the best.

You will not sleep unless you eat." The Prioress looked at her uncomprehendingly; as if, for the moment, words conveyed no meaning to her mind.

Then she saw those old hands trembling, and a sudden flood of colour flushed the pallor of her face.
This sweet stirring of fresh life within her own heart gave her to see, in the old woman's untiring devotion, a human element hitherto unperceived.