"Amen," intoned Sister Abigail, eyes bent upon the ground; for the tall
figure of the Prioress, mounting the steps, now came into view.

The Prioress passed up the cloister with a stately grace of motion
which, even beneath the heavy cloth of her white robe, revealed the
noble length of supple limbs. Her arms hung by her sides, swaying
gently as she walked. There was a look of strength and of restfulness
about the long fingers and beautifully moulded hands. Her face, calm
and purposeful, was lifted to the sunlight. Suffering and sorrow had
left thereon indelible marks; but the clear grey eyes, beneath level
brows, were luminous with a light betokening the victory of a pure and
noble spirit over passionate and most human flesh.

No sinner, in her presence, ever felt crushed by hopeless weight of
sin; no saint, before the gaze of her calm eyes, felt sure of being
altogether faultless.

So truly was she woman, that all humanity seemed lifted to her level;
so completely was she saint, that sin did slink away abashed before her
coming.

They who feared her most, were most conscious of her kindness. They
who loved her best, were least able to venture near.

In the first bloom of her womanhood she had left the world, resigning
high rank, fair lands, and the wealth which makes for power. Her faith
in human love having been rudely shattered, she had sought security in
Divine compassion, and consolation in the daily contemplation of the
Man of Sorrows. In her cell, on a rough wooden cross, hung a life-size
figure of the dying Saviour.