As she moved by, old Mary Antony let drop the pale and speckled pea.
Keeping their distances, mostly with shrouded faces, bent heads, and folded hands, all the White Ladies passed.
Each went in silence to her cell, there kneeling in prayer and contemplation until the Refectory bell should call to the evening meal.
As the last, save one, went by, the keen eyes of the old lay-sister noted that her hands were clenched against her breast, that she stumbled at the topmost step, and caught her breath with a half sob.
Behind her, moving quickly, came the spare form of the Sub-Prioress, ferret-faced, alert, vigilant; fearful lest sin should go unpunished; wishful to be the punisher.
She must have heard the half-strangled sob burst from the slight figure stumbling up the steps before her, had not old Mary Antony been suddenly moved at that moment to uplift her voice in a cracked and raucous "Amen." Startled, and vexed at being startled, the Sub-Prioress turned upon Mary Antony.
"Peace, woman!" she said.

"The Convent cloister is not a hen-yard.
Such ill-timed devotion well-nigh merits penance.

Rise from thy knees, and go at once about thy business." The Sub-Prioress hastened on.
Scowling darkly, old Antony bent forward, looking, past Mother Sub-Prioress, up the cloister to the distant passage.
Sister Mary Seraphine had reached her cell.

The door was shut.
Old Antony's knees creaked as she arose, but her wizened face was once more cheerful.
"Beans in her broth to-night," she said.

"One for 'woman'; another for the hen-yard; a third for threatening penance when I did but chant a melodious 'Amen.' I'll give her beans--castor beans!" Down the steps she went, pushed the heavy door to, locked it, and drew forth the key; then turned her steps toward the cell of the Reverend Mother.
On her way thither, she paused at a certain door and listened, her ear against the oaken panel.