I was so lost in my musings, that I started as if I had been shot when the bell rung for vespers. We heard at supper that the prioress had rallied a little, but neither Father Austin nor the doctor, who had been sent for, believed she could get well. That was an anxious time. The prioress lingered for several days, sometimes quite herself for a few hours at a time, but mostly lying in a death-like stupor. The elders were of course much with her, and the discipline of the house was unusually relaxed. It was a time that showed what people were made of. The really sincere and religious sisters went on with their duties just as usual, being perhaps a little more punctilious in their performance; others took advantage, broke rules, got together in knots and coteries and gossiped—not always in the most edifying way—of what was coming to pass, and what they would do when they got out. I was very angry with them then, but I can make more excuse for them in these days. Many of them, like Sister Perpetua, had no real calling to a religious life (it was called the religious life in those days, as if no one could be religious out a cloister). They were mostly younger daughters and orphan sisters, who were not likely to marry well and were sent to the convent as a safe and respectable place out of the way. Not that all were so, by any means, but we had enough of that element to rejoice in any relaxation of rules. One day at sunset, however, the suspense was at an end so far as the prioress was concerned. We were all called into the ante-room of the apartment to assist at the last rites, and after they were over, we stood watching our poor mother who, supported in the arms of mother assistant, was painfully gasping her life away. Her face wore an anxious expression, and her eyes turned from one to another in a way that showed she was quite conscious. Now and then she said a word or two in a low tone—so low that we in the outer room could not hear. At last mother assistant beckoned me, and whispered me to give her a dry napkin from a pile that lay on the table. As I did so, I heard the prioress say, in a distressed whisper: "But Purgatory—that dreadful place—are you sure?" Mother assistant bent down to her and whispered in her ear—I was close by and heard the words plainly: "The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin." The poor lady smiled, and just as the last ray of the sun shot into the window, she passed peacefully away. She was a good woman in the main, and very much of a lady, but she had allowed indolence—coming from an illness in the first place—to grow upon her, till it became an overmastering passion—if one can call indolence a passion.