Under the Black Pall
who knew her, and those inside as well, had felt that she was renouncing much. They had looked almost with awe upon the woman whose religious feeling was so intense that she must give up the riches that her life held for the service of God.
What a mockery—what deceit! Her eyes had been opened—when it was too late! Opened by the cry of a human heart which seemed the outward expression of her own long years of self-repression and bitter loneliness.
She pressed her cheek against the hard floor and moaned. She was a living lie, but it was too late now to confess it. She must remain a lie until the end—a nun mistaken in her vocation, with no love for it in her heart, yet respected by her associates and pupils for the qualities she had not. She was an impostor! Nature or God, or both, had shown it to her here, in the sanctuary she was profaning by her vows.
Above her the music throbbed tremulously. A single voice, Sister Cecilia's, took up the organ's refrain and carried it forward with a suggestion of triumph in the rich tones. Her face was raised to the arched dome of the chapel, and in her pure eyes burned the light of religious exaltation.
Sister Patience, prone under the black pall,
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