I could do little for her--only now and then give her to drink, or raise her a little. And she could not speak much. A few words occasionally appeared to be all she had strength for. Towards morning I thought she seemed to wander and grow light-headed. She called once "Isabel!" and once "Aveline!" We have at present no Sister in the house named Aveline, and when I asked if I should seek permission to call Sister Isabel if she wished for her, she said, "No: she will be gone to Marlborough," and what she meant I know not. [Note 1.] Then, after she had lain still a while, she said, "Guendolen--is it thou?" "No, dearest Mother; it is Sister Annora," said I. "Guendolen was here," saith she: "where is she?" "Perhaps she will come again," I answered, for I saw that she scarcely had her wits clear. "She will come again," she saith, softly. "Ay, He will come again--with clouds--and His saints with Him. And Guendolen will be there--my Sister Guendolen, the Princess [Note 2], whom men cast forth,--Christ shall crown her in His kingdom. The last of the royal line! There are no Princes of Wales any more." Then I think she dropped asleep for a time, and when she woke she knew me at first; though she soon grew confused again. "Christ's blessing and mine be on thee, mine own Annora!" saith she, tenderly. "Margaret, too--poor Magot! Tell her--tell her--" but her voice died away in indistinct murmurs. "They will soon be here." "Who, dearest Mother?" "Joan and Guendolen. Gladys, perchance. I don't know about Gladys. White--all in white: no black in that habit. And they sing--No, she never sang on earth. I should like to hear Guendolen sing in Heaven." The soft toll of the bell for prime came to her dulled ear. "Are they ringing in Heaven?" she said. "Is it Guendolen that rings? The bells never rang for her below. They have fairer music up there." The door opened, and Mother Ada looked in. "Sister Annora, you are released. Come to prime." Oh, to have tarried only a minute! For a light which never was from sun or moon had broken over the dying face, and she vainly tried to stretch her hands forth with a rapturous cry of--"Guendolen! Did the Master send thee for me?" "Sister! You forget yourself," said Mother Ada, when I lingered. "Remember the rule of holy obedience!" I suppose it was very wicked of me--I am always doing wicked things--but I did wish that holy obedience had been at the bottom of the Red Sea, I kissed the trembling hand of the dear old Mother, and signed the holy cross upon her brow to protect her when she was left alone, and then I followed Mother Ada. After prime I was ordered to the work-room. I looked round, and saw that Sister Roberga and Margaret were missing. I did hope Margaret, and not Sister Roberga, had been sent up to the Infirmary. Of course I could not ask.