Tales of the Cloister
Fifty were to do this. The soft notes of the organ filled the chapel, and the friends of the novices turned wet eyes towards the door through which they were to enter. The heavy odor of many flowers was in the air, and clouds of incense rose to the blue dome. Outside, waiting horses pawed noisily in the usually quiet street. Inside, choked sobs were heard—the last lament of mothers, perhaps, whose children were leaving them forever.
The little door to the left of the sanctuary opened, and the long line of white-veiled Sisters wound its way into the chapel, filling the great space left for them back of the altar railing. Their faces were pale, and the days and nights of fasting had left deep lines on their cheeks, but in their eyes was a light that made those who looked at it hold their breath. The friends of Sister Patience saw her in the row nearest the railing. Her back was towards them, but her tall figure and the carriage of her head were not to be mistaken. When she turned at a point in the ceremony they looked at each other. Some change, some singular change, was in her face. But what?
The solemn ceremony went on. Before the altar the priest and his assistants chanted the words of the service. High up in the organ-loft the choir of nuns responded softly. The
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