The Ordeal of Sister Cuthbert
black of her horizon a blue line appeared dimly. She straightened herself, buried her face in her hands, and prayed again. And as she prayed the clouds that had obscured her soul were dissipated and peace came to her.
Thank God, it was only a passing storm that had struck her. Through all she had not really wavered in her choice. This was her life—this the ideal life—she, one of those gloriously privileged to share it. If she had seemed to waver, it was because the strongest human love she knew was threatened. She had been weak, she would be strong; she had rebelled, she would be submissive. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but they were those that fall when the storm has spent itself. After their soothing flow, the young nun raised her head as a flower straightens itself under an April shower.
She was alone in the chapel. That was fortunate, she thought. No other eye had seen her struggle, no one but her Maker knew how far she had fallen below the standard she had set herself. But she would go on from this point unfalteringly. The dear mother would understand—she who always understood. Even here, she would see—and how much more beyond! What was this little life, this little world, that one should mourn over a few years of separation? After it came the enduring peace
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