Also that should his fancy incline him to seek companionship and consolation in the love of another, a yearly pilgrimage to Worcester for her sake, would stand in the way of his future happiness.
Walking last in that silent procession back to the Nunnery, the Prioress walked alone with her sadness.

Her heart was heavy indeed.
She had angered her old friend, Symon of Worcester.

After being infinitely patient, when he might well have had cause for wrath, he had suddenly taken a sterner tone, and departed in a certain aloofness, leaving her with the fear that she had lost him, also, beyond recall.
Thus she walked in loneliness and sorrow.
As she passed up the steps into the cloisters, she noted that Mary Antony was not in her accustomed place.
Slightly wondering, and half unconsciously explaining to herself that the old lay-sister had probably for some reason gone forward with the Sub-Prioress, the Prioress moved down the now empty passage and entered her own cell.
On the threshold she paused, astonished.
In front of the shrine of the Madonna, knelt Mary Antony in a kind of trance, hands clasped, eyes fixed, lips parted, the colour gone from her cheeks, yet a radiance upon her face, like the after-glow of a vision of exceeding glory.
She appeared to be wholly unconscious of the presence of the Prioress, who recovering from her first astonishment, closed the door, and coming forward laid her hand gently upon the old woman's shoulder.
Mary Antony's eyes remained fixed, but her lips moved incessantly.
Bending over her, the Prioress could make out disjointed sentences.
"Gone!.

.

.