“Who, dearest Mother?”
“Joan and Guendolen. Gladys, perchance. I don’t know about Gladys. White—all in white: no black in that habit. And they sing—No, she never sang on earth. I should like to hear Guendolen sing in Heaven.”
The soft toll of the bell for prime came to her dulled ear.
“Are they ringing in Heaven?” she said. “Is it Guendolen that rings? The bells never rang for her below. They have fairer music up there.”
The door opened, and Mother Ada looked in.
“Sister Annora, you are released. Come to prime.”
Oh, to have tarried only a minute! For a light which never was from sun or moon had broken over the dying face, and she vainly tried to stretch her hands forth with a rapturous cry of—“Guendolen! Did the Master send thee for me?”
“Sister! You forget yourself,” said Mother Ada, when I lingered. “Remember the rule of holy obedience!”
I suppose it was very wicked of me—I am always doing wicked things—but I did wish that holy obedience had been at the bottom of the Red Sea, I kissed the trembling hand of the dear old Mother, and signed the holy cross upon her brow to protect her when she was left alone, and then I followed Mother Ada. After prime I was ordered to the work-room. I looked round, and saw that Sister Roberga and Margaret were missing. I did hope Margaret, and not Sister Roberga, had been sent up to the Infirmary. Of course I could not ask.
For two hours I sewed with my heart in the Infirmary. If the rule of holy obedience had been at the bottom of the Red Sea, I am sure I should not have tarried in that work-room another minute. And then I heard the passing bell. It struck so cold to my heart that I had hard work to keep my broidering in a straight line.