Last evening, as we were putting the orphans to bed--two of the Sisters
do it by turns, every week--little Damia saith to me--
"Sister Annora, what is the matter with our new Sister?"
"Who dost thou mean, my child?" I asked. "Sister Marian?"
For Sister Marian was our last professed.
"No," said the child; "I mean Sister Margaret, who has such curious
eyes--eyes that say every thing and don't tell any thing--it is so
funny! (So other folks than I had seen those eyes.) But what was the
matter with her yesterday morning, at the holy Sacrament?"
"I know not, Damia, for I saw nothing. A religious, as thou knowest,
should not lift her eyes, save for adoration."
"O Sister Annora, how many nice things she must lose! But I will tell
you about Sister Margaret. It was just when the holy mass began.
Father Hamon had said `_Judica me_' and then, you know, the people had
to reply, `_Quia Tu es_.' And when they began the response, Sister
Margaret's head went up, and her eyes ran up the aisle to the altar."
"Damia, my child!" I said.
"Indeed, Sister, I am not talking nonsense! It looked exactly like
that. Then, in another minute, they came back, looking so sorry, and
so, _so_ tired! If you will look at her, you will see how tired she
looks, and has done ever since. I thought her soul had been to look for
something which it could not find, and that made her so sorry."
"Had ever child such odd fancies as thou!" said I, as I tucked her up.
"Now say thy Hail Mary, and go to sleep."
I thought it but right to check Damia, who has a very lively
imagination, and would make up stories by the yard about all she sees,
if any one encouraged her. But when I sat down again to the loom,
instead of the holy meditations which ought to come to me, and I suppose
would do so if I were perfect, I kept wondering if Damia had seen
rightly, and if Margaret's soul had been to look for something, and was
disappointed in not finding it. I looked at her--she was just across
the room,--and as Damia said, there was a very sorrowful, weary look on
her face--a look as if some thought, or memory, or hope, had been
awakened in her, only to be sent back, sorely disappointed and
disheartened. Somebody else noticed it too.
My Lady Prioress was rather late last night in dismissing us. Sister
Roberga said she was sure there had been some altercation between her
and Mother Gaillarde: and certainly Mother Gaillarde, as she stood at
the top of the room by my Lady, did not look exactly an incarnation of
sweetness. But my Lady gave the word at last: and as she said--"_Pax
vobiscum, Sorores_!" every Sister went up to her, knelt to kiss her
hand, took her own lamp from the lamp-stand, and glided softly from the
recreation-room. Half-way down stood Mother Alianora, and at the door
Mother Ada. Margaret was just behind me: and as I passed Mother
Alianora, I heard her ask--
"Sister Margaret, art thou suffering in some wise?"
I listened for Margaret's answer. There was a moment's hesitation
before it came.
"No, Mother, I thank you; save from a malady which only One can heal."
"May He heal thee, my child!" was the gentle answer.