The Sacramentaries, from which she so often made copies and translations, now lay upon his table.
His tired eyes dwelt upon them. How often he had watched the firm white fingers opening those heavy clasps, and slowly turning the pages.
The books remained; yet her presence was gone.
His weary brain repeated, over and over, this obvious fact; then began a hypothetical reversal of it. Supposing the books had gone, and her presence had remained? . . . Presently a catalogue formed itself in his mind of all those things which might have gone, unmissed, unmourned, if her dear presence had remained. . . . Before long the Palace . . . the City . . . the Cathedral itself . . . all had swelled the list. . . . He was alone with Mora and the sunset; . . . and the battlements of glory were the radiant walls of heaven; . . . and soon he and she were walking up old Mary Antony's golden stair together. . . .
Hush! . . . "So He giveth His belovèd sleep."
* * * * * *
The Bishop had but just returned from laying to rest, in the burying-ground of the Convent, the worn-out body of the aged lay-sister.
When he had signified that he intended himself to perform the last rites, Mother Sub-Prioress had ventured upon amazed expostulation.
Such an honour had never, in the history of the Community, been accorded even to the Canonesses, much less to a lay-sister. Surely Father Peter—or the Prior? Had it been the Prioress herself, why then——
Few can remember the petrifying effect of a flash of sudden anger in the kindly eyes of Symon of Worcester. Mother Sub-Prioress will never forget it.