A whirl of thought swept o'er his startled soul — When to the door he heard a footstep come, And then a voice — the Mother of the nuns Had entered — and in calmest tone began:
“Forgive, kind sir, my stay; our Matin song Had not yet ended when you came; our rule Forbids our leaving choir; this my excuse.” She bent her head — the rustle of her veil
Was like the trembling of an angel's wing, Her voice's tone as sweet. She turned to him And seemed to ask him with her still, calm look What brought him there, and waited his reply.
“I am a stranger, Sister, hither come,” He said, “upon an errand still more strange; But thou wilt pardon me and bid me go If what I crave you cannot rightly grant;
I would not dare intrude, nor claim your time, Save that a friendship, deep as death, and strong As life, has brought me to this holy place.” He paused. She looked at him an instant, bent
Her lustrous eyes upon the floor, but gave Him no reply, save that her very look Encouraged him to speak, and he went on: He told her Ethel's story from the first,
He told her of the day amid the flowers, When they were only six sweet summers old; He told her of the night when all the flowers, A-list'ning, heard the words of sacrifice —
He told her all; then said: “I saw a stone In yonder graveyard where your Sisters sleep, And writ on it, all hid by roses white, I saw a name I never ought forget.”
She wore a startled look, but soon repressed The wonder that had come into her face. “Whose name?” she calmly spoke. But when he said
Cookies on Poetry Cove