“ULLAINEE”,

She forward bent her face and pierced his own With look intensest; and he thought he heard The trembling of her veil, as if the brow It mantled throbbed with many thrilling thoughts

But quickly rose she, and, in hurried tone, Spoke thus: “‘ Tis hour of sunset,‘ tis our rule To close the gates to all till to-morrow's morn. Return to-morrow; then, if so God wills,

I'll see you.” He gave many thanks, passed out From that unworldly place into the world. Straight to the lonely graveyard went his steps —

Swift to the “White-Rose-Grave”, his heart: he knelt Upon its grass and prayed that God might will The mystery's solution; then he took, Where it was drooping on the slab, a rose,

The whiteness of whose leaves was like the foam Of summer waves upon a summer sea. Then thro’ the night he went And reached his room, where, weary of his thoughts,

Sleep came, and coming found the dew of tears Undried within his eyes, and flung her veil Around him. Then he dreamt a strange, weird dream. A rock, dark waves, white roses and a grave,

And cloistered flowers, and cloistered nuns, and tears That shone like jewels on a diadem, And two great angels with such shining wings — All these and more were in most curious way

Blended in one dream or many dreams. Then He woke wearier in his mind. Then slept Again and had another dream. His dream ran thus —

( He told me all of it many years ago, But I forgot the most. I remember this ): A dove, whiter than whiteness’ very self, Fluttered thro’ his sleep in vision or dream,

Bearing in its flight a spotless rose. It Flew away across great, long distances, Thro’ forests where the trees were all in dream, And over wastes where silences held reign,

And down pure valleys, till it reached a shore By which blushed a sea in the ev'ning sun; The dove rested there awhile, rose again And flew across the sea into the sun;

And then from near or far ( he could not say ) Came sound as faint as echo's own echo — A low sweet hymn it seemed — and now And then he heard, or else he thought he heard,

As if it were the hymn's refrain, the words: “White dies first!” “White dies first.” The sun had passed his noon and westward sloped; He hurried to the cloister and was told

The Mother waited him. He entered in, Into the wide and pictured room, and there The Mother sat and gave him welcome twice. “I prayed last night,” she spoke, “to know God's will;

I prayed to Holy Mary and the saints That they might pray for me, and I might know My conduct in the matter. Now, kind sir, What wouldst thou? Tell thy errand.” He replied:

“It was not idle curiosity That brought me hither or that prompts my lips To ask the story of the `White-Rose-Grave’, To seek the story of the sleeper there

Whose name I knew so long and far away. Who was she, pray? Dost deem it right to tell?” There was a pause before the answer came, As if there was a comfort in her heart,

There was a tremor in her voice when she Unclosed two palest lips, and spoke in tone Of whisper more than word: “She was a child

Of lofty gift and grace who fills that grave, And who has filled it long — and yet it seems To me but one short hour ago we laid Her body there. Her mem'ry clings around

Our hearts, our cloisters, fresh, and fair, and sweet. We often look for her in places where Her face was wont to be: among the flowers, In chapel, underneath those trees. Long years

Have passed and mouldered her pure face, and yet It seems to hover here and haunt us all. I cannot tell you all. It is enough To see one ray of light for us to judge

The glory of the sun; it is enough To catch one glimpse of heaven's blue For us to know the beauty of the sky. It is enough to tell a little part

Of her most holy life, that you may know The hidden grace and splendor of the whole.” “Nay, nay,” he interrupted her; “all! all! Thou'lt tell me all, kind Mother.”

She went on, Unheeding his abruptness: “One sweet day — A feast of Holy Virgin, in the month

Of May, at early morn, ere yet the dew Had passed from off the flowers and grass — ere yet Our nuns had come from holy Mass — there came, With summons quick, unto our convent gate

A fair young girl. Her feet were wet with dew — Another dew was moist within her eyes — Her large, brown, wond'ring eyes. She asked for me And as I went she rushed into my arms —

Like weary bird into the leaf-roofed branch That sheltered it from storm. She sobbed and sobbed Until I thought her very soul would rush From her frail body, in a sob, to God.

I let her sob her sorrow all away. My words were waiting for a calm. Her sobs Sank into sighs — and they too sank and died In faintest breath. I bore her to a seat

In this same room — and gently spoke to her, And held her hand in mine — and soothed her With words of sympathy, until she seemed As tranquil as myself.

“And then I asked: `What brought thee hither, child? and what wilt thou?’ `Mother!’ she said, `wilt let me wear the veil? Wilt let me serve my God as e'en you serve

Him in this cloistered place? I pray to be — Unworthy tho’ I be — to be His spouse. Nay, Mother — say not nay —‘ twill break a heart Already broken;’ and she looked on me

With those brown, wond'ring eyes, which pleaded more, More strongly and more sadly than her lips That I might grant her sudden, strange request. `Hast thou a mother?’ questioned I. `I had,’

She said, `but heaven has her now; and thou Wilt be my mother — and the orphan girl Will make her life her thanks.’ `Thy father, child?’

`Ere I was cradled he was in his grave.’ `And hast nor sister nor brother?’ `No,’ she said, `God gave my mother only me; one year This very day He parted us.’ `Poor child,’

I murmured. `Nay, kind Sister,’ she replied, `I have much wealth — they left me ample means — I have true friends who love me and protect. I was a minor until yesterday;

But yesterday all guardianship did cease, And I am mistress of myself and all My worldly means — and, Sister, they are thine If thou but take myself — nay — do n't refuse.’

`Nay — nay — my child!’ I said; `the only wealth We wish for is the wealth of soul — of grace. Not all your gold could unlock yonder gate, Or buy a single thread of Virgin's veil.

Not all the coins in coffers of a king Could bribe an entrance here for any one. God's voice alone can claim a cell — a veil, For any one He sends.

Who sent you here, My child? Thyself? Or did some holy one Direct thy steps? Or else some sudden grief? Or, mayhap, disappointment? Or, perhaps,

A sickly weariness of that bright world Hath cloyed thy spirit? Tell me, which is it.’ `Neither,’ she quickly, almost proudly spoke. `Who sent you, then?’

`A youthful Christ,’ she said, `Who, had he lived in those far days of Christ, Would have been His belov'd Disciple, sure — Would have been His own gentle John; and would

Have leaned on Thursday night upon His breast, And stood on Friday eve beneath His cross To take His Mother from Him when He died. He sent me here — he said the word last night

In my own garden; this the word he said — Oh! had you heard him whisper: “Ethel, dear! Your heart was born with veil of virgin on; I hear it rustle every time we meet,

In all your words and smiles; and when you weep I hear it rustle more. Go — wear your veil — And outward be what inwardly thou art, And hast been from the first. And, Ethel, list:

My heart was born with priestly vestments on, And at Dream-Altars I have ofttimes stood, And said such sweet Dream-Masses in my sleep — And when I lifted up a white Dream-Host,

A silver Dream-Bell rang — and angels knelt, Or seemed to kneel, in worship. Ethel say — Thou wouldst not take the vestments from my heart Nor more than I would tear the veil from thine.

My vested and thy veiled heart part to-night To climb our Calvary and to meet in God; And this, fair Ethel, is Gethsemane — And He is here, who, in that other, bled;

And they are here who came to comfort Him — His angels and our own; and His great prayer, Ethel, is ours to-night — let's say it, then: Father! Thy will be done! Go find your veil

And I my vestments.” He did send me here.’ “She paused — a few stray tears had dropped upon Her closing words and softened them to sighs. I listened, inward moved, but outward calm and cold

To the girl's strange story. Then, smiling, said: `I see it is a love-tale after all, With much of folly and some of fact in it; It is a heart affair, and in such things

There's little logic, and there's less of sense. You brought your heart, dear child, but left your head Outside the gates; nay, go, and find the head You lost last night — and then, I am quite sure,

You'll not be anxious to confine your heart Within this cloistered place.’ She seemed to wince Beneath my words one moment — then replied:

`If e'en a wounded heart did bring me here, Dost thou do well, Sister, to wound it more? If merely warmth of feelings urged me here, Dost thou do well to chill them into ice?

And were I disappointed in yon world, Should that debar me from a purer place? You say it is a love-tale — so it is; The vase was human — but the flower divine;

And if I break the vase with my own hands, Will you forbid that I should humbly ask The heart of God to be my lily's vase? I'd trust my lily to no heart on earth

Save his who yesternight did send me here To dip it in the very blood of Christ, And plant it here.’ And then she sobbed outright

A long, deep sob. I gently said to her: `Nay, child, I spoke to test thee — do not weep. If thou art called of God, thou yet shalt come

And find e'en here a home. But God is slow In all His works and ways, and slower still When He would deck a bride to grace His court. Go, now, and in one year — if thou dost come

Thy veil and cell shall be prepared for thee; Nay — urge me not — it is our holy rule — A year of trial! I must to choir, and thou Into the world to watch and wait and pray

Until the Bridegroom comes.’ She rose and went Without a word. “And twelvemonth after came,

True to the very day and hour, and said: `Wilt keep thy promise made one year ago? Where is my cell — and where my virgin's veil? Wilt try me more? Wilt send me back again?

I came once with my wealth and was refused: And now I come as poor as Holy Christ Who had no place to rest His weary head — My wealth is gone; I offered it to him

Who sent me here; he sent me speedy word “Give all unto the poor in quiet way — And hide the giving — ere you give yourself To God!” `Wilt take me now for my own sake?

I bring my soul —‘ tis little worth I ween, And yet it cost sweet Christ a priceless price.’ “`My child,’ I said, `thrice welcome — enter here; A few short days of silence and of prayer,

And thou shalt be the Holy Bridegroom's bride.’ “Her novice days went on; much sickness fell Upon her. Oft she lay for weary weeks In awful agonies, and no one heard

A murmur from her lips. She oft would smile A sunny, playful smile, that she might hide Her sufferings from us all. When she was well She was the first to meet the hour of prayer —

The last to leave it — and they named her well: The `Angel of the Cloister’. Once I heard The Father of our souls say when she passed `Beneath that veil of sacrificial black

She wears the white robe of her innocence.’ And we — we believed it. There are sisters here Of three-score years of service who would say: `Within our memory never moved a veil

That hid so saintly and so pure a heart.’ And we — we felt it, and we loved her so, We treated her as angel and as child. I never heard her speak about the past,

I never heard her mention e'en a name Of any in the world. She little spake; She seemed to have rapt moments — then she grew Absent-minded, and would come and ask me

To walk alone and say her Rosary Beneath the trees. She had a voice divine; And when she sang for us, in truth it seemed The very heart of song was breaking on her lips.

The dower of her mind as of her heart, Was of the richest, and she mastered art By instinct more than study. Her weak hands Moved ceaselessly amid the beautiful.

There is a picture hanging in our choir She painted. I remember well the morn She came to me and told me she had dreamt A dream; then asked me would I let her paint

Her dream. I gave permission. Weeks and weeks Went by, and ev'ry spare hour of the day She kept her cell all busy with her work. At last‘ twas finished, and she brought it forth —

A picture my poor words may not portray. But you must gaze on it with your own eyes, And drink its magic and its meanings in; I'll show it thee, kind sir, before you go.

“In every May for two whole days she kept Her cell. We humored her in that; but when The days had passed, and she came forth again, Her face was tender as a lily's leaf,

With God's smile on it; and for days and days Thereafter, she would scarcely ope her lips Save when in prayer, and then her every look Was rapt, as if her soul did hold with God

Strange converse. And, who knows? mayhap she did. “I half forgot — on yonder mantlepiece You see that wondrous crucifix; one year She spent on it, and begged to put beneath

That most mysterious word — `Ullainee’. “At last the cloister's angel disappeared; Her face was missed at choir, her voice was missed — Her words were missed where every day we met

In recreation's hour. And those who passed The angel's cell would lightly tread, and breathe A prayer that death might pass the angel by And let her longer stay, for she lay ill —

Her frail, pure life was ebbing fast away. Ah! many were the orisons that rose From all our hearts that God might spare her still; At Benediction and at holy Mass

Our hands were lifted, and strong pleadings went To heaven for her; we did love her so — Perhaps too much we loved her, and perhaps Our love was far too human. Slow and slow

She faded like a flower. And slow and slow Her pale cheeks whitened more. And slow and slow Her large, brown, wondering eyes sank deep and dim. Hope died on all our faces; but on her's

Another and a different hope did shine, And from her wasted lips sweet prayers arose That made her watchers weep. Fast came the end. Never such silence o'er the cloister hung —

We walked more softly, and, whene'er we spoke, Our voices fell to whispers, lest a sound Might jar upon her ear. The sisters watched In turns beside her couch; to each she gave

A gentle word, a smile, a thankful look. At times her mind did wander; no wild words Escaped her lips — she seemed to float away To far-gone days, and live again in scenes

Whose hours were bright and happy. In her sleep She ofttimes spoke low, gentle, holy words About her mother; and sometimes she sang The fragments of sweet olden songs — and when

She woke again, she timidly would ask If she had spoken in her sleep, and what She said, as if, indeed, her heart did fear That sleep might open there some long-closed gate

She would keep locked. And softly as a cloud, A golden cloud upon a summer's day, Floats from the heart of land out o'er the sea, So her sweet life was passing. One bright eve,

The fourteenth day of August, when the sun Was wrapping, like a king, a purple cloud Around him on descending day's bright throne, She sent for me and bade me come in haste.

I went into her cell. There was a light Upon her face, unearthly; and it shone Like gleam of star upon a dying rose. I sat beside her couch, and took her hand

In mine — a fair, frail hand that scarcely seem'd Of flesh — so wasted, white and wan it was. Her great, brown, wond'ring eyes had sunk away Deep in their sockets — and their light shone dim

As tapers dying on an altar. Soft As a dream of beauty on me fell low, Last words. `Mother, the tide is ebbing fast;

But ere it leaves this shore to cross the deep And seek another, calmer, I would say A few last words — and, Mother, I would ask One favor more, which thou wilt not refuse.

Thou wert a mother to the orphan girl, Thou gav'st her heart a home, her love a vase, Her weariness a rest, her sacrifice a shrine — And thou didst love me, Mother, as she loved

Whom I shall meet to-morrow, far away — But no, it is not far — that other heaven Touches this, Mother; I have felt its touch, And now I feel its clasp upon my soul.

I'm going from this heaven into that, To-morrow, Mother. Yes, I dreamt it all. It was the sunset of Our Lady's feast. My soul passed upwards thro’ the golden clouds

To sing the second Vespers of the day With all the angels. Mother, ere I go, Thou'lt listen, Mother sweet, to my last words, Which, like all last words, tell whate'er was first

In life or tenderest in heart. I came Unto my convent cell and virgin veil, Sent by a spirit that had touched my own As wings of angels touch — to fly apart

Upon their missions — till they meet again In heaven, heart to heart, wing to wing. The “Angel of the Cloister” you called me — Unworthy sure of such a beauteous name —

My mission's over — and your angel goes To-morrow home. This earthly part which stays You'll lay away within a simple grave — But, Mother, on its slab thou'lt grave this name,

“Ullainee!” ( she spelt the letters out ), Nor ask me why — tho’ if thou wilt I'll tell; It is my soul name, given long ago By one who found it in some Eastern book,

Or dreamt it in a dream, and gave it me — Nor ever told the meaning of the name; And, Mother, should he ever come and read That name upon my grave, and come to thee

And ask the tidings of “Ullainee”, Thou'lt tell him all — and watch him if he weeps, Show him the crucifix my poor hands carved — Show him the picture in the chapel choir —

And watch him if he weeps; and then There are three humble scrolls in yonder drawer;’ ( She pointed to the table in her room ); `Some words of mine and words of his are there.

And keep these simple scrolls until he comes, And put them in his hands; and, Mother, watch — Watch him if he weeps; and tell him this: I tasted all the sweets of sacrifice,

I kissed my cross a thousand times a day, I hung and bled upon it in my dreams, I lived on it — I loved it to the last.’ And then A low, soft sigh crept thro’ the virgin's cell;

I looked upon her face, and death was there.” There was a pause — and in the pause one wave Of shining tears swept thro’ the Mother's eyes. “And thus,” she said, “our angel passed away.

We buried her, and at her last request We wrote upon the slab, `Ullainee’. And I — ( for she asked me one day thus, The day she hung her picture in the choir ) —

I planted o'er her grave a white rose tree. The roses crept around the slab and hid The graven name — and still we sometimes cull Her sweet, white roses, and we place them on

Our Chapel-Altar.” Then the Mother rose, Without another word, and led him thro’ A long, vast hall, then up a flight of stairs

Unto an oaken door, which turned upon its hinge Noiselessly — then into a Chapel dim, On gospel side of which there was a gate From ceiling down to floor, and back of that

A long and narrow choir, with many stalls, Brown-oaken; all along the walls were hung Saint-pictures, whose sweet faces looked upon The faces of the Sisters in their prayers.

Beside a “Mater Dolorosa” hung The picture of the “Angel of the Choir”. He sees it now thro’ vista of the years, Which stretch between him and that long-gone day,

It hangs within his memory as fresh In tint and touch and look as long ago. There was a power in it, as if the soul Of her who painted it had shrined in it

Its very self; there was a spell in it That fell upon his spirit thro’ his eyes, And made him dream of God's own holy heart. The shadow of the picture, in weak words,

Was this, or something very like to this: —— A wild, weird wold, Just like the desolation of a heart, Stretched far away into infinity;

Above it low, gray skies drooped sadly down, As if they fain would weep, and all was bare As bleakness’ own bleak self; a mountain stood All mantled with the glory of a light

That flashed from out the heavens, and a cross With such a pale Christ hanging in its arms Did crown the mount; and either side the cross There were two crosses lying on the rocks —

One of the whitest roses — ULLAINEE Was woven into it with buds of Red; And one of reddest roses — Merlin's name Was woven into it with buds of white.

Below the cross and crosses and the mount The earth-place lay so dark and bleak and drear; Above, a golden glory seemed to hang Like God's own benediction o'er the names.

I saw the picture once; it moved me so I ne'er forgot its beauty or its truth; But words as weak as mine can never paint That Crucifixion's picture.

Merlin said to me: “Some day — some far-off day — when I am dead, You have the simple rhymings of two hearts, And if you think it best, the world may know

A love-tale crowned by purest SACRIFICE.”