Sister Margaret.
“Do I not know
The life of woman is full of woe?
Toiling on and on and on,
With breaking heart, and tearful eyes,
And silent lips - and in the soul
The secret longings that arise,
Which this world never satisfies?”
Longfellow.
Mother Alianora was lying in her bed when I entered the Infirmary, just under the window, where the soft light of the low autumn sun came in and lit up her pillow and her dear old face. She smiled when she saw me.
There was another Sister in the room, who was stirring a pan over the fire, and at first I scarcely noticed her. I went up to the dear Mother, and asked her how she was.
“Well, my child,” she said, tenderly. “Nearly at Home.”
Something came up in my throat that would not let me speak.
“Hast thou been sent to relieve Sister Marian?” she asked.
“I know not,” said I, after a moment’s struggle with myself: then, remembering what I had been bidden, I added, “Mother Gaillarde bade me come.”
We sat silent for a few moments. Sister Marian poured out the broth and brought it to the Mother, and I supported her while she drank a little of it. She could not take much.
Just before the bell rang for compline, Mother Ada came in.