When she reached her room door she kissed the lady's hand in bidding her good-night.
"This has done you good, my daughter," said the abbess, gently.
"It has done me good. Thanks for your wise counsel, holy mother. I will follow it still. I will go again tomorrow. Bless me, my mother," said Salome, bowing her head before the abbess, who blessed her again, and then softly withdrew.
Salome entered her room and retired to rest, and slept more calmly than she had done for many days and nights.
She arose on Sunday morning refreshed; but it seemed as if her stony apathy had passed off, only to leave her more keenly sensitive to her cause of grief; for as she dressed herself, a flood of tender memories overflowed her soul, and she threw herself, weeping freely, on her cot.
In this condition she was found by the abbess, who was pleased to see her weep, knowing that the keenness of sorrow is much softened by tears.
She sat down in silence by the cot, and waited until the paroxysm was past.
"Good mother, I could not help it," said Salome, with a last convulsive sob, as she wiped her eyes, and arose.
"Nor did I wish you to do so. Thank the Lord for the gift of tears. Have you had breakfast, my daughter?"
"Yes, dear mother. Sister Francoise brought it to me before I was up. This is the last time I will allow myself such an indulgence. To-morrow morning, if you will permit me, I will join you in the refectory."