“I know not. I only know that I was very sinful and very miserable. I thought more of him than of God. I prayed all the saints to send him back; and I had my heart full of wicked thoughts about them, because they did not, or could not. Then other troubles came: my kind and tender parents died, my brothers were scattered over the world, my sisters were married—not all happily. One brother, my favourite, was killed in Flanders, fighting against the heretics.” “I know.—The English?” “It did happen, strangely enough, that he fell by the hand of an Englishman. Then my proud heart broke at last. I gave up earthly hope, and turned, as I have told you, to God for comfort. My child, He does comfort the sorrowful, He does bind up the broken heart; though He takes more than a day to do His work.” “He is good,” said Sumac gently. Then hearing the sound of a bell, which she knew was meant to summon the nuns to prayer, she rose to go. Remembering her basket of flowers, she took it up, and put it in her friend’s hand. “Here are flowers for the holy saint, mother,” she said. “I am so stupid that I have forgotten his name.” “San Martin, my child; whose feast we celebrate to-morrow. Truly, Lucia, these are very beautiful,” said the nun, as she removed the fine cotton cloth that covered the basket, and took out, with admiring carefulness, the golden stalks of maize, with their rich golden grains sheathed in broad leaves of silver, and ornamented with tassels of delicate silver thread. “San Martin. Was he the good man who, you told me, gave his cloak to the beggar? Will he be pleased with our flowers, do you think, mother? I am glad. But, mother, I want to make some now for our Lord Christ Himself. May I?” “When it comes near Easter time, you shall. But now, dear child, the Lady Abbess bade me tell you she would fain you wrought a few for us, that we might send them to Spain, as an offering to the Mother House at Valladolid.” “You shall have them, mother,” said the girl. “But I would like, best of all, to make some to give to our Saviour.” “Give Him your heart, my child. That gift will please Him more than any other,” said the nun, as she kissed her affectionately. “Now I must hasten, or I shall have to do a penance for coming late to prayers.” XVIII. At Home. “Trust!—the blessed deathly angels Whisper Sabbath hours at hand. By the heart’s wound when most gory By the longest agony, Smile!—behold, in sudden glory The Transfigured smiles on thee! And ye lifted up your head, And it seemed as if He said— ‘My beloved, is it so? Have ye tasted of my woe? Of my bliss ye shall not fail.’ He stands brightly where the shade is, With the keys of Death and Hades.” E. B. BROWNING.