“Dear child, we will do so,” said I. “Joan, didst thou ever read in holy Scripture that it was wicked to kiss folks?”
She smiled. “I have read there of one,” saith she, “who stole up behind the holiest of all men that ever breathed, and kissed His feet: and the rebuke she won from Him was no more than this: ‘Her many sins are forgiven her, and she loved much.’ So, if a full sinful woman might kiss Christ without rebuke, methinks, if it please you, Mother dear, you might kiss me.”
Well, I knew all my life of that woman, but I never thought of it that way before, and it is marvellous comforting unto me.
My Lady sent this morning for all the Mothers together. Mine heart went pitter-patter, as it always doth when I am summoned to her chamber. It is only because of her office: for if she were no more than a common Sister, I am sorely afraid I should reckon her a selfish, lazy woman: but being Lady Prioress, I cannot presume to sit in judgment on my superiors thus far. We found that she had sent for us to introduce us to the new confessor, whose name is Father Mortimer, he is tall, and good-looking (so far as I, a Sister, can understand what is thought to be so in the world), and has dark, flashing eyes, which remind me of Margaret’s, and I should say also of that priest that once confessed us, did I not feel certain that this is the same priest himself. He will begin his duties this evening at compline.
Sister Gaillarde said to me as we came forth from my Lady,—“Had I been a heathen Greek, and lived at the right time, methinks I should have wed Democritus.”
“Democritus! who was he?” said I.
“He was named the Laughing Philosopher,” said she, “because he was ever laughing at men and things. And methinks he did well.”
“What is there to laugh at, Sister Gaillarde?”
“Nothing you saw, Saint Annora.”
“Now you are laughing at me,” said I, with a smile.