HIS Eminence John Felix Maria Cardinal Falconieri having arrived at the Minster with such dignity of retinue as befitted a Prince of the Church, was closetted with the Lady Abbess.

A small, very old man this Lord Cardinal, at first sight you would have seen nothing remarkable in him. On first sight, I say, and that advisedly. Looking again, an’ you were so minded, you would have guessed aristocracy in the thin-featured face, read kindliness in the mouth, shrewdness in the eyes, intellect in the forehead, and I am very sure determination in the chin. Had you received speech of him, you would have left mere surmise for certainty, and have added thereto a knowledge of his personality, his power.

Yet, for all that, you would have found him what he truly was, exceeding simple hearted. A stately progress, much retinue, irked him hugely. Yet he suffered the irksomeness on occasions, urged thereto by his chaplain, who recognized the dignity of his master vastly better than did the master himself; who held also that he knew very well what was good for both spiritual prince and subject. This prince’s pleasure, and one he occasionally indulged in, was to escape in a manner temporarily from his rank in the Roman hierarchy, play incognito the part of simple priest.

There was a certain little church set on the edge of a forest, above a village containing some few hundred souls. Here at times he found the sheer simplicity he desired. Its priest dismissed to gain recreation an’ he would in some wider sphere, the Cardinal took upon himself his duties. Here he said his daily Mass to the sound of the wind which whispered or shrilled through the forest trees according to the season, assoiled the souls of the village folk, gave them the Body of Christ to their refreshment; while never a breath of his true title got afloat. As Father Felix he was known among them; and, if you will believe me, they looked to his coming very willingly.

This little matter is not one which is set forth by his biographers. Had they got wind on it they would doubtless have fashioned a very pretty tale therefrom, garnished it out of all likeness of the simple truth. Hearing it not, however, it is omitted from their pages. You have, therefore, but my word for it.

Sitting now in a straight-backed arm-chair he thoughtfully surveyed an image of Our Lady on an oak bracket opposite to him, lending ear the while to the Abbess’s discourse. A brief discourse truly. It was not her way to use two words where one sufficed, to elaborate unnecessarily. Clear-brained herself she looked for a like clarity in those with whom she conversed. Finding it frequently absent she prayed for patience. On this occasion no such prayer was needed.

Her discourse ended she fell to silence. Having said her say she left the verdict to other lips. An upright old figure, hands hidden in the sleeves of her gown, she sat waiting.

To another than the Abbess it might have appeared that her discourse had fallen on deaf ears, or at the least on ears for the moment closed to external sounds, since no reply followed on her words. You might have said, watching the Cardinal’s face, that his wits had gone a-wool-gathering. Not so the Abbess. Perfectly serene she awaited the response she knew would come. Quiet reigned throughout the place; within the room entire, without broken only by an occasional footfall in the passage, by the faint jingle of beads as they swayed at the waist of some passing nun, or the liquid note of pigeons from the roof of the Minster.

Presently the Cardinal roused himself.

“Well, well,” he said smiling, “send the child to me.”

Brigid entering anon saw a small tired-looking old man sitting in a chair, his face towards the window. On her entrance he turned, and she saw no fatigue in the blue eyes. Kneeling she kissed his hand. He murmured words of blessing. Then—

“Be seated, child,” he said.

He shifted his position, looked more directly at her.

“So thou hast left the Lady Isabel?”

“Aye, my Lord.”

“And for what reason?”

“Sir, she desired my services no longer.” Here was the same reply she had given to her aunt the Abbess.

The Cardinal put his hand up to his chin, looked at her very shrewdly.

“And perchance thou no longer desirest to serve her?” Here was a bow drawn at a venture, but the shaft shot very near the mark.

“My Lord—” stammered Brigid reddening.

“Suppose I hear the tale, my child.”

“It is not wholly mine, my Lord.”

The Cardinal smiled. “Well, we will leave it. The matter to my seeing stands thus. Thou hast displeased her, and thou art not wholly pleased with her.”

“My Lord, I am very ill-pleased with her.”

He laughed. “At least thou art candid, child. Now tell me truly, was there aught of pique in thy leaving the Castle.”

“None, my Lord.” The reply was ready enough. “I saw that she would not have me see, I heard that she would not have me hear. For that she liked me not, nor truly did I like her. I can no longer give her my service whole-heartedly, nor does she desire what lesser service I might give her. Therefore am I here.” Again the reply she had given the Abbess, yet this time going further.

“Ah!” The fragile old hand beat lightly on the arm of the chair. “And here thou desirest to be a nun.”

“That is my desire.”

“A sudden desire, child.”

“Sir,” said Brigid very low and earnest, “may not Our Lord speak suddenly an’ He will?”

“Very true,” replied the Cardinal, “an’ it be indeed His voice and not thy own heart speaking.”

Brigid remained silent. The Cardinal bent kindly eyes towards her, read clearly resolve in the small square face. Musing, he shifted ground.

“Nuns pray much,” he said warningly. “Thy aunt hath told me that on former occasions when thou hast visited the Minster prayer was none so greatly to thy liking.”

“Mayhap, my Lord,” said Brigid sweetly, “I can acquire liking. Here is a good school.”

The Cardinal’s eyes twinkled. Memory turning backward many years he saw the Lady Abbess herself before him, heard spoken words.

“Methinks, daughter,” here was memory speaking, “thou lackest meekness, a quality possessed by nuns.”

“Then, Father, it were well I seek it where it dwells so willingly.”

Here he found a repetition of that little scene.

“I am also told, child,” he continued, banishing memory for the moment, testing her replies, “that thou art over-merry. Nuns are sober-minded.”

“Methinks, my Lord,” quoth Brigid demurely, “that devotion on one note alone may prove a very monotonous chant.”

Again the Cardinal’s eyes twinkled. He liked the spirit that could find quick reply, fancied he saw here material other than usual for Sister Gabrielle the Novice Mistress, for all that saw her fashioning it willingly and to good purpose. Matters were not, however, wholly to his mind. Well-versed in dealing with mankind the girl’s resolve was very patent to him. He would learn further what had brought the resolve to light.

“Child,” he said on a sudden very grave, “thou hast told me little that is in thy mind.”

Brigid looked towards the window. “My Lord,” she said very low, “I lack words.”

“Find those thou canst,” he said kindly. “Perchance I may aid thee further.”

Brigid trembled. “Sir, I have seen a soul in jeopardy.”

“I have seen many, child. What then?”

“Ah, sir,” said Brigid, her voice thrilling, “thinking on the one soul I thought on others. I saw a warring world, Powers in deadly conflict, Christ nailed to the Cross watching with Patient Eyes. Sir, I would aid.”

“And how, child?”

“’Tis that I ask you, my Lord. Methought of ways and means, and found none. Then methought me of prayer. Sir, I am a woman, I can do but little. At the Foot of the Cross from whence Christ reigns can I not pray with Him in His Silence, in His Desire for the souls of men? My Lord, I have no words to show my meaning. Can you understand?”

The Cardinal looked not at her, but at the figure of the Mother of God. “I understand very well. Thou hast found words enough. And is that all?”

“All for which I can find the words, my Lord.”

The Cardinal leaned back slowly in his chair. On the wall opposite him the sunlight lay in a brilliant patch creeping slowly upwards toward the blue-robed figure on the oak bracket. A silence endured a little space, a silence very pregnant with unuttered thoughts. Anon he roused himself, spoke almost briskly.

“Well, child, thou knowest Our Lord demands service in general from all souls, in particular from some. It would seem possible that He hath asked of thee an especial token of thy love towards Him. Whether it is precisely what those dost believe it to be cannot be decided on the instant. Yet for my part I see no hindrance—since thou hast no earthly ties to bind thee—to our putting the question to the test. Your part will be a very detailed obedience.” He looked at her very kindly as she knelt to kiss his hand. On her departure he fell again into reverie.

Later he spoke to the Lady Abbess.

“Finding a certain likeness in the girl,” quoth he with his shrewd old smile, “methinks we may fashion as very excellent a nun from the niece as the aunt hath proved herself.”

“Truly, my Lord,” retorted the old lady, “with my aid to the balance in the matter I trust you will fashion a better one.”