"What vows? I made none, worthy to be called vows. I was bidden, a little babe of four years, to say `ay' and `nay' at certain times, and `I am willing,' and so forth. What knew I of the import attaching to such words? I do ensure thee I knew nothing at all, save that when I had been good and done as I was told, I should have a pretty little habit like the Sisters, and be called `Sister' as these grown women were. Is that what God calls a vow?--a vow of life-long celibacy, dragged from a babe that knew not what vow nor celibacy were! `Doth God lack your lie?' saith Job [Job 13, verse 7]. Yea, the Psalmist crieth, `_Numquid adhaeret Tibi sedes iniquitatis_?' [Psalm 94, verse 20]--Wala wa! the only thing I marvel is that He thundereth not down with His great wrath, and delivereth not him that is in misery out of the hand of him that despoileth." If it had been any other Sister, I think I should have been horribly shocked: but do what I would, I could not speak angrily to my own sister. I wonder if it were very wicked in me! But it surprised me much that Mother Alianora lay and hearkened, and said nought. Neither was she asleep, for I glanced at her from time to time, and always saw her awake and listening. Truly, she had little need of nurses, for it was no set malady that ailed her--only a gentle, general decay from old age. Why two of us were set to watch her I could not tell. Had I thought it possible that Mother Gaillarde could do a thing so foreign to her nature, I might have fancied that she sent us two there that night just in order that we might talk and comfort each other. If Mother Alianora had been the one to do it, I might have thought such a thing: or if my Lady had sent us herself, I should have supposed she had never considered the matter: but Mother Gaillarde! Well, whatever reason she had, I am thankful for that talk with Margaret. So I kept silence, and my sister pursued her tale. "He was not a Brother," she said, "but a young man training for the priesthood under the Master. But not yet had he taken the holy vows, therefore I suppose thou wilt think him less wicked than me." She looked up into my face with a half-smile. "O Margaret! I wis not what to think. It all sounds so strange and shocking--only that I have not the heart to find fault with thee as I suppose I should do." Margaret answered by a little laugh. "In short," said she, "thou canst be wicked sometimes like other folk. Be it done! I ensure thee, Annora, it comforts me to know the same. Because it is not real wickedness, only painted. And I fear not painted sin, any more than I hold in honour painted holiness. For real sin is not paint; it is devilishness. And real holiness is not paint; it is dwelling in God. And God is love." "But not that sort of love!" I cried.