Countess Linda.
That is your way of singing, Agatha;
Just as the nightingales pour forth sad songs,
And when they reach men's ears they make men's hearts
Feel the more kindly.
Agatha.
Nay, I cannot sing:
My voice is hoarse, and oft I think my prayers
Are foolish, feeble things; for Christ is good
Whether I pray or not—the Virgin's heart
Is kinder far than mine; and then I stop
And feel I can do naught toward helping men,
Till out it comes, like tears that will not hold,
And I must pray again for all the world.
'T is good to me—I mean the neighbors are:
To Kate and Nell too. I have money saved
To go on pilgrimage the second time.
Countess Linda.
And do you mean to go on pilgrimage
With all your years to carry, Agatha?
Agatha.
The years are light, dear lady: 't is my sins
Are heavier than I would. And I shall go
All the way to Einsiedeln with that load:
I need to work it off.
Countess Linda.
What sort of sins,
Dear Agatha? I think they must be small.
Agatha.
Nay, but they may be greater than I know;
'T is but dim light I see by. So I try
