“Nay,” said Margaret, “if I am to be governed, let it be by one that has a will. ‘Do this,’ and ‘Go there,’ may be vexatious at times: but far worse is it to ask for direction, and hear only, ‘As you like,’ ‘I don’t know,’ ‘Don’t ask me.’”
“Now that is just what I should like,” said Sister Philippa. “I never get it, worse luck!”
“Did you mean me, Sister Margaret?” said Sister Ada, stiffly.
“I cry you mercy, Mother; I was not thinking of you at all,” answered Margaret.
“It sounded very much as if you were,” said Sister Ada, in her iciest fashion. “I think, if you had been anxious for perfection, you would not have answered me in that proud manner, but would have come here and entreated my pardon in a proper way. But I am too humble-minded to insist on it, seeing I am myself the person affronted. Had it been any one else, I should have required it at once.”
“I said—” Margaret got so far, then her brow flushed, and I could see there was an inward struggle. Then she rose from the form, and laying down her work, knelt and kissed the ground at Mother Ada’s feet. I could hear Sister Roberga whisper to Sister Philippa, “That mean-spirited fool!”
Sister Gaillarde said in a softer tone than is her wont,—“Beati pauperes spiritu: quoniam ipsorum est regnum caelorum.” (Matthew 5, verse 3.)
“Thank you, Sister Gaillarde,” said Sister Ada, quickly. “I scarcely expected recognition from you.”
“You got as much as you expected, then,” said Sister Gaillarde, drily, with a look across at me which almost made me laugh.
“I told you, I got more than I expected,” was Sister Ada’s answer.