"Let thy face be toward the Lord of the city," said Mother Alianora. "He shall lead thee forth by the right way, that thou mayest come to His city and to His holy hill. The right way, daughter, is sometimes the way over the moor, and through the mist. `Who of you walketh in darkness, and there is no light to him? Let him trust in the name of the Lord, and lean upon his God.' Why, my child, it is only when man cannot see that it is possible for him to trust. Faith is not called in exercise so long as thou walkest by sight." "But when thou art utterly alone," said my sister in a low voice, "with not one footstep on the road beside thee--" "That art thou never, child, so thou be Christ's. _His_ footsteps are alway there." "In suffering, ay: but in perplexity?" "Daughter, when thou losest His steps, thou yet hast Himself. `If any lack wisdom, let him ask of God.' And God is never from home." "Neither is Satan." "`Greater is He that is in you than he in the world.'" Mother Alianora seemed weary when she had said this, and lay still a while: and Margaret did not answer. I think the Mother dropped asleep; I sat beside her and watched. But Margaret stood still at the foot of the bed, not sitting down, and in the dim light of our one little lamp I could scarcely see her face as she stood, only that it was turned toward the casement, where a faint half-moon rode in the heavens, and the calm ancient stars looked down on us. Oh, how small a world is ours in the great heavens! yet for one soul of one little babe in this small world, the Son of God hath died. My heart went out to Margaret as she stood there: yet my lips were sealed. I felt, strangely, as if I could not speak. Something held me back, and I knew not if it were God, or Satan, or only mine own want of sense and bravery. The long hours wore on. The church bell tolled for lauds, and we heard the soft tramp of the Sisters' feet as they passed and returned: then the doors closed, and Mother Ada's voice said, "_Laus Deo_!" and Sister Ismania's replied, "_Deo gratias_!" Then Mother Ada's footsteps passed the door as she went to her cell, and once more all was silence. On rolled the hours slowly, and still Mother Alianora seemed to sleep: still Margaret stood as if she had been cut in stone, without so much as moving, and still I sat, feeling much as if I were stone too, and had no power to move or speak. It might be about half-way between lauds and prime when the spell was at last broken. And it was broken, to my astonishment, by Margaret's asking me a question that fairly took my breath away. "Annora, art thou a saint?" These were the first words Margaret had ever spoken to me, except from necessity. That weary, dried-up thing that I call mine heart, seemed to give a little bit of throb. "Our Lady love us, no!" said I. "I never was, nor never could be." "I am glad to hear it," she said. "Why, Margaret?"