Read SISTER TABEA of Duffels , free online book, by Edward Eggleston, on

Two weather-beaten stone buildings at Ephrata, in Pennsylvania, remain as monuments on this side of the water of the great pietistic movement in Germany in the early part of the eighteenth century.  One of these was called Bethany, the other Sharon.  A hundred and thirty or forty years ago there were other buildings with these, and the softening hand of time had not yet touched any of them.  The doorways were then, as now, on the ground level, the passages were just as narrow and dusky, the cells had the same little square windows to let in the day.  But the stones in that day had a hue that reminded one of the quarry, the mortar between them was fresh, the shingles in the roof had gathered no moss and very little weather stain; the primeval forests were yet within the horizon, and there was everywhere an air of newness, of advancement, and of prosperity about the Dunkard Convent.  One sees now neither monks nor nuns in these narrow hallways; monks and nuns are nowhere about Ephrata, except in the graveyard where all the brethren of Bethany, and all the sisters who once peopled Sharon, sleep together in the mold.  But in the middle of the eighteenth century their bare feet shuffled upon the stairs as, clad in white hooded cloaks descending to the very ground, they glided in and out of the low doors, or assembled in the little chapel called “Zion” to attend service under the lead of their founder, Conrad Beissels.  In the convent, where he reigned supreme, Beissels was known as Brother Friedsam; later he was reverently called Father Friedsam Gottrecht, a name that, like all their convent names, had plenty of mystical significance attached to it.

But monks and nuns are men and women; and neither cloister life, nor capuchin hoods and cloaks, nor bare feet, nor protracted midnight services, can prevent heartburnings and rivalries, nor can all of these together put down - what is most to be dreaded in a monastery - the growth of affection between man and woman.  What could be done to tame human nature into submission, to bring it to rejoice only in unearthly meditations, and a contented round of self-denial and psalm-singing, Brother Friedsam had tried on his followers with the unsparing hand of a religious enthusiast.  He had forbidden all animal food.  Not only was meat of evil tendency, but milk, he said, made the spirit heavy and narrow; butter and cheese produced similar disabilities; eggs excited the passions; honey made the eyes bright and the heart cheerful, but did not clear the voice for music.  So he approved chiefly of those plain things that sprang direct from the earth, particularly of potatoes, turnips, and other roots, with a little bread soup and such like ghostly diet.  For drink he would have nothing but what he called “innocent clear water,” just as it flowed from the spring.

But even a dish of potatoes and turnips and beets and carrots, eaten from wooden trenchers, without milk or butter or meat, was not sufficient to make the affections and passions of men and women as ethereal as Friedsam wished.  He wedded his people in mystic marriage to “the Chaste Lamb,” to borrow his frequent phrase.  They sang ecstatically of a mystical city of brotherly and sisterly affection which they, in common with other dreamers of the time, called Philadelphia, and they rejoiced in a divine creature called in their mystical jargon Sophia, which I suppose meant wisdom, wisdom divorced from common sense.  These anchorites did not eschew social enjoyment, but held little love feasts.  The sisters now invited the brethren, and next the brethren entertained the sisters - with unbuttered parsnips and draughts of innocent clear water, no doubt.

That which was most remarkable at Ephrata, and that out of which grows my story, was the music.  Brother Friedsam, besides his cares of organization, finance, and administration, and his mystical theological speculations, was also a poet.  Most of the songs sung in the little building called “Zion” were written by him - songs about “the lonesome turtledove in the wilderness,” that is, the Church; songs in praise of the mystical marriage of virgins with the chaste Lamb; songs about the Philadelphian brotherhood of saints, about the divine Sophia, and about many other things which no man can understand, I am sure, until he has first purified himself from the gross humors of the flesh by a heavenly diet of turnips and spring water.  To the brethren and sisters who believed their little community in the Pennsylvania woods to be “the Woman in the Wilderness” seen by St. John, these words represented the only substantial and valuable things in the wide universe; and they sang the songs of Conrad Beissels with as much fervor as they could have sung the songs of heaven itself.  Beissels - the Friedsam of the brotherhood - was not only the poet but the composer of the choral songs, and a composer of rare merit.  The music he wrote is preserved as it was copied out with great painstaking by the brethren and sisters.  In looking over the wonderful old manuscript notebook, the first impression is one of delight with the quaint symbolic illuminations wrought by the nuns of Ephrata upon the margins.  But those who know music declare that the melodies are lovely, and that the whole structure of the harmonies is masterful, and worthy of the fame they had in the days when monks and nuns performed them under the lead of Brother Friedsam himself.  In the gallery of Zion house, but concealed from the view of the brethren, sat the sisterhood, like a company of saints in spotless robes.  Below, the brethren, likewise in white, answered to the choir above in antiphonal singing of the loveliest and most faultless sort.  Strangers journeyed from afar over rough country roads to hear this wonderful chorus, and were moved in the depths of their souls with the indescribable sweetness and loftiness of the music, and with the charm and expressiveness of its rendering by these pale-faced other-worldly singers.

But their perfection of execution was attained at a cost almost too great.  Brother Friedsam was a fanatic, and he was also an artist.  He obliged the brethren and sisters to submit to the most rigorous training.  In this, as in religion, he subordinated them to his ideals.  He would fain tune their very souls to his own key; and he exacted a precision that was difficult of attainment by men and women of average fallibility and carelessness.  The men singers were divided into five choruses of five persons each; the sisters were classified, according to the pitch of their voices, into three divisions, each of which sang or kept silent, according to the duty assigned to it in the notebook.  At the love-feasts these choruses sat side by side at the table, so as to be ready to sing together with perfect precision whenever a song should be announced.  At the singing school Brother Friedsam could not abide the least defect; he rated roundly the brother or sister who made any mistake; he scourged their lagging aspirations toward perfection.  If it is ever necessary to account for bad temper in musicians, one might suggest that the water-gruel diet had impaired his temper and theirs; certain it is that out of the production of so much heavenly harmony there sprang discord.  The brethren and sisters grew daily more and more indignant at the severity of the director, whom they reverenced as a religious guide, but against whom, as a musical conductor, they rebelled in their hearts.

The sisters were the first to act in this crisis.  At their knitting and their sewing they talked about it, in the kitchen they discussed it, until their hearts burned within them.  Even in illuminating the notebook with pretty billing turtledoves, and emblematic flowers such as must have grown in paradise, since nothing of the sort was ever known in any earthly garden - even in painting these, some of the nuns came near to spoiling their colors and blurring their pages with tears.

Only Margaretha Thome, who was known in the convent as Sister Tabea, shed no tears.  She worked with pen and brush, and heard the others talk; now and then, when some severe word of Brother Friedsam’s was repeated, she would look up with a significant flash of the eye.

“The Hofcavalier doesn’t talk,” said Sister Thecla.  This Thecla had given the nickname of “Hofcavalier” (noble courtier), to Tabea at her first arrival in the convent on account of her magnificent figure and high carriage.

“You shouldn’t give nicknames, Sister Thecla.”

The last speaker was a sister with an austere face and gray eyes which had no end of cold-blooded religious enthusiasm in them.

“I need not give you a nickname,” retorted Thecla to the last speaker; “Brother Friedsam did that when he called you Jael.  You are just the kind of person to drive a tent-nail through a man’s head.”

“If he were the enemy of the Church of God,” said Jael, in a voice as hard as it was sincere.

Then the talk drifted back to the singing school and Brother Friedsam’s severity.

“But why doesn’t the Hofcavalier speak?” again persisted Thecla.

“When the Hofcavalier speaks, it will be to Brother Friedsam himself,” answered Tabea.

The temerity of this proposition took Thecla’s breath, but it set the storm a-going more vigorously than before among the sisterhood, who, having found somebody ready to bell the cat, grew eager to have the cat belled.  Only Sister Jael, who for lack of voice was not included in either of the three choruses of the sisterhood, stoutly defended Brother Friedsam, thinking, perhaps, that it was not a bad thing to have the conceit of the singers reduced; indeed, she was especially pleased that Tabea, the unsurpassed singer of the sisters’ gallery, should have suffered rebuke.

At length it was agreed that Tabea should tell Brother Friedsam that the sisters did not intend to go to singing school again.

Then Tabea lifted up her dark head and regarded the circle of women in white garments about her.

“You are all brave now, but when Brother Friedsam shakes his finger at you, you will every one of you submit as though you were a set of redemptioners bought with his money.  When I tell Brother Friedsam that I shall not come to singing school, I shall stick to it.  He may get his music performed by some one else.  He will not call me a ‘ninny’ again.”

“There spoke the Hofcavalier,” giggled Thecla.

“Sister Tabea,” said Jael, “if you go on as you are going, you will end by leaving the convent and breaking your vows.  Mark my words.”

“I am going to finish this turtledove first, though,” said Tabea gayly.

It was finally agreed that if Tabea would speak to the director on behalf of the sisterhood, the sisters would resolutely stand by their threat, and that they would absent themselves from Brother Friedsam’s music drills long enough to have him understand that they were not to be treated like children.  To the surprise of all, Tabea left her work at once, covered up her head with the hood attached to her gown, and sought the lodge of Brother Friedsam, which stood between Bethany and Sharon.

When Tabea was admitted to the cell, and stood before the revered Friedsam, she felt an unexpected palpitation.  Nor was Beissels any more composed.  He could never speak to this girl without some mental disturbance.

“Brother Friedsam,” she said, “I am sent by the sisters to say that they are very indignant at your treatment of them in the rehearsals, and that they are not going to attend them hereafter.”

Beissels’s sensitive lips quivered a moment; this sudden rebellion surprised him, and he did not at first see how to meet it.

“You suggested this course to them, I suppose?” he said after a pause.

“No, Brother Friedsam, I had nothing to do with it until now.  But I think they are right, and I hope they will keep to their word.  You have been altogether too hard on us.”

The director made no reply, but wearily leaned his pale, refined face upon his hand and looked up at Tabea.  This look of inquiry had something of unhappiness in it that touched the nun’s heart, and she was half sorry that she had spoken so sharply.  She fumbled for the wooden latch of the door presently, and went out with a sense of inward defeat and annoyance.

“The Hofcavalier does not come back with head in the air,” murmured Thecla.  “A bad sign.”

“I gave the message,” said Sister Tabea, “and Brother Friedsam did not say whether the four parts sung by the men would be sufficient or not.  But I know very well what he will do; he will coax you all back within a week.”

“And you will leave the convent and break your vows; mark my words,” said Sister Jael with sharpness.

“It will be after I get this page finished, I tell you,” said Tabea.  But she did not seem in haste to finish the page, for, not choosing to show how much she had been discomposed by Brother Friedsam’s wistful and inquiring look, she gathered up her brush, her colors, and the notebook page on which she had been at work, and went up the stairs alongside the great chimney, shutting herself in her cell.

Once there, the picture of Friedsam’s face came vividly before her.  She recalled her first meeting with him at her mother’s house on the Wissahickon, and how her heart had gone out to the only man she had ever met whose character was out of the common.  I do not say that she had consciously loved him as she listened to him, sitting there on the homemade stool in her mother’s cabin and talking of things beyond comprehension.  But she could have loved him, and she did worship him.  It was the personal fascination of Brother Friedsam and her own vigorous hatred of the commonplace that had led her three years before to join the sisterhood in the Sharon house.  She did not know to what degree a desire for Beissels’s companionship had drawn her to accept his speculations concerning the mystical Sophia and the Philadelphian fellowship.  But the convent had proved a disappointment.  She had seen little of the great Brother Friedsam, and he had given her, instead of friendly notice and approval, only a schoolmaster’s scolding now and then for slight faults committed in singing a new piece.

As she sat there in gloomy meditation Jael’s evil prediction entered her mind, and she amused herself with dreams of what might take place if she should leave the convent and go out into the world again.

In putting away her papers a little note fell out.

“The goose is at it again,” she said.

She had that day received some blank paper from the paper mill of the community, and Daniel Scheible had put this little love letter into the package of which he was the bearer.  He had sent such letters before, and Tabea, though she had not answered them, had kept them, partly because she did not wish to inform those in authority of this breach of rule, partly because so much defiance of the law of the place gave a little zest to a monotonous life, and partly because she was a young woman, and therefore not displeased with affection, even from a youth in whom she had no more than a friendly interest.

Scheible’s parents had been Dunkards, persecuted in Europe, who had sought refuge from their troubles by the bad expedient of taking ship for Philadelphia, with an understanding that they were, according to custom, to be sold for a term of years to pay the fare.  Among a multitude who died on the passage from the overcrowding and bad food were Daniel’s father and mother, and the little lad was sold for the rest of his minority to pay his own fare as well as that of the dead members of his family.  As a promising boy, he had been bought by the Ephrata brotherhood and bred into the fraternity.  With the audacity of youth he had conceived a great passion for Tabea, and now that his apprenticeship was about to expire he amused her with surreptitious notes.  To-day, for the first time, Tabea began to think of the possibility of marrying Scheible, chiefly, perhaps, from a vague desire to escape from the convent, which could not but be irksome to one of her spirit.  Scheible was ambitious, and it was his plan, as she knew, to go to Philadelphia to make his fortune; and she and he together, what might they not do?  Then she laughed at herself for such a day dream, and went out to do her share of household duties, singing mellifluously, as she trod barefoot through the passages, a mystic song of hope and renunciation: 

      “Welt, packe dich;
      Ich sehne mich
      Nur nach dem Himmel
    Denn droben ist Lachen und Lieben und Leben;
    Hier unten ist Alles dem Eiteln ergeben.”

Which rendered may read: 

      “World, get you gone;
      I strive alone
      To attain heaven. 
    There above is laughter, life, and love;
    Here below one must all vanity forego.”

But though to-day she sang of the laughter that is above, she was less unworldly on the morrow.  Brother Friedsam, as she had foreseen, began to break down the rebellion about the singing school.  He was too good a strategist to attack the strong point of the insurrection first.  He began with good-natured Thecla, who could laugh away yesterday’s vexations, and so one by one he conquered the opposition in detail.  He shrank from assailing the Hofcavalier until he should have won the others, knowing well the obstinacy of her resolution.  And when all the rest had yielded he still said nothing to Tabea, either because he deemed it of no use, or because he thought neglect might do her rebellious spirit good.  But if this last were his plan, he had miscalculated the vigor of her determination.

“Do you know,” said the good-hearted, gossipy little Sister Persida, coming into Tabea’s cell two or three days later, “that the sisters have all yielded to Brother Friedsam?  He coaxed and managed them so, you know.  Has he talked to you?”


“You’ll have to give up when he does.  Nobody can resist Brother Friedsam.”

“I can.”

“You always scare me so, Sister Tabea; I wouldn’t dare hold up my head as you do.”

But when Persida had gone out the high head of the Hofcavalier went down a little.  She felt that the man whom she in some sort worshiped had put upon her a public slight.  He did not account it worth his while to invite her to return.  She had missed her chance to refuse.  Just what connection Brother Friedsam’s slight had with Daniel Scheible’s love letters I leave the reader to determine.  But in her anger she fished these notes out of a basket used to hold her changes of white raiment, and read them all over slowly, line by line, and for the first time with a lively interest in their contents.  They were very ingenious; and they very cleverly pictured to her the joys of a home of her own with a devoted husband.  She found evidences of very amiable traits in the writer.  But why should I trace in detail the curious but familiar process by which a girl endows a man with all the qualities she wishes him to possess?

The very next day Scheible, who had been melancholy ever since he began to send to Tabea letters that brought no answer, was observed to be in a mood so gleeful that his companions in the paper mill doubted his sanity.  The fountain of this joy was a note from Tabea stowed away in the pocket of his gown.  She had not signed it with her convent title, but with the initials M. T., for her proper name, Margaretha Thome.  There were many fluctuations in Tabea’s mind and many persuasive notes from Scheible before the nun at length promised to forsake the convent, now grown bitter to her, for the joys of a home.  Even then Daniel could not help feeling insecure in regard to a piece of good fortune so dazzling, and he sent note after note to urge her to have the day for the wedding fixed.

Meantime the young man created but little sensation by leaving the mill, as his term of apprenticeship had expired, and he had never professed much attachment to the brotherhood.

Sister Tabea had persistently omitted the rehearsals, and so the grand chorals were now given on the Sabbaths without her voice, and Jael felt no little exultation at this state of things.  At length, after much wavering, Tabea made a final resolution to leave the convent, and to accept the love of the adventurous youth who had shown so persistent an affection for her.

As soon as the day of the wedding was arranged by means of the surreptitious notes which she continued to exchange with Scheible, she prepared to leave Sharon and Ephrata.  But nothing could be farther from her plans than the project proposed by her lover that she should elope with him at night.  Tabea meant to march out with all her colors flying.

First of all she went to see the sinister prophetess, Sister Jael.

“I’ve finished that turtledove, Sister Jael, and now I am going to leave the sisterhood and marry Daniel Scheible.”

Nothing is so surprising to a prophet as the fulfillment of his most confident prediction.  Jael looked all aghast, and her face splintered into the most contradictory lines in the effort to give expression to the most conflicting emotions.

“I’m astonished at you,” she said reprovingly, when she got breath.

“Why, I thought you expected it,” replied Tabea.

“Will you break your vow?”

“Yes.  Why shouldn’t a woman break a vow made by a girl?  And so, good-by, Sister Jael.  Can’t you wish me much joy?”

But Jael turned sharply away in a horror that could find no utterance.

Thecla laughed, as was her wont, and wished Tabea happiness, but intimated that Daniel was a bold man to undertake to subdue the Hofcavalier.  Sister Persida’s woman’s heart was set all a-flutter, and she quite forgot that she was trying to be a nun, and that she belonged to the solitary and forsaken turtledove in the wilderness.  She whispered in Tabea’s ear:  “You’ll look so nice when you’re married, dear, and Daniel will be so pleased, and the young men will steal your slipper off your foot at the dinner table, and how I wish I could be there to see you married!  But oh, Tabea!  I don’t see how you dare to face them all!  I’d just run away with all my might if I were in your place.”

And so each one took the startling intelligence according to her character, and soon all work was suspended, and every inmate of Sharon was gathered in unwonted excitement in the halls and the common room.

When Tabea passed out of the low-barred door of Sharon she met the radiant face of Scheible, who had tied his two saddle horses a little way off.

“Come quickly, Tabea,” he said with impatience.

“No, Daniel; it won’t do to be rude.  I must tell Brother Friedsam good-by.”

“No, don’t,” said Daniel, turning pale with terror.  “If you go in to see the director you will never come with me.”

“Why won’t I?” laughed the defiant girl.

“He’s a wizard, and has charms that he gets out of his great books.  Don’t go in there; you’ll never get away.”

Daniel held to the Pennsylvania Dutch superstitions, but Tabea only laughed, and said, “I am not afraid of wizards.”  She looked the Hofcavalier more than ever as she left the trembling fellow and went up to the door of Brother Friedsam’s lodge.

“She isn’t afraid of the devil,” muttered Scheible.

Tabea knocked at the door.

“Come in and welcome, whoever thou art,” said the director within.

But when she had lifted the latch and pushed back the door, squeaking on its wooden hinges, Tabea found that Friedsam was engaged in some business with the prior of the convent, the learned Dr. Peter Miller, known at Ephrata as Brother Jabez.  Friedsam did not at first look up.  The delay embarrassed her; she had time to see, with painful clearness, all the little articles in the slenderly furnished room.  She noticed that the billet of wood which lay for a pillow, according to the Ephrata custom, on a bare bench used for a bed, was worn upon one side with long use; she saw how the bell rope by means of which Friedsam called the brethren and sisters to prayers at any hour in the night, hung dangling near the bench, so that the bell might be pulled on a sudden inspiration even while the director was rising from his wooden couch; she noted the big books; and then a great reverence for his piety and learning fell upon her, and a homesick regret; and Scheible and the wedding frolic did not seem so attractive after all.  Nevertheless she held up her head like a defiant Hofcavalier.

After a time Brother Jabez, with a kind greeting, passed her, and the director, looking up, said very gently: 

“I wish you a very good day, Sister Tabea.”

“I am no longer Sister Tabea, but Margaretha Thome.  I have said adieu to all in Sharon, and now I come to say good-by to Brother Friedsam.  I am going to lay aside these garments and marry Daniel Scheible.”

She held out her hand, but Friedsam was too much stunned to see it.

“You have broken your vow!  You have denied the Lord!”

There was no severity in his despondent rebuke; it had the vibration of an involuntary cry of surprise and pain.

Tabea was not prepared for this.  Severity she could have defied; but this cry of a prophet awakened her own conscience, and she trembled as if she had been in the light of a clear-seeing divine judgment.

“You can speak so, Brother Friedsam, for you have no human weaknesses.  I am not suited to a convent; I never can be happy here.  I am not submissive.  I want to be necessary to somebody.  Nobody cares for me here.  You do not mind whether I sing in the chorals or not, and you will be better pleased to have me away, and I am going.”  Then, finding that the director remained silent, she said, with emotion:  “Brother Friedsam, I have a great reverence for you, but I wish you knew something of the infirmities of a heart that wants to love and to be loved by somebody, and then maybe you would not think so very hardly of Tabea after she has gone.”

There was a tone of beseeching in these last words which Tabea had not been wont to use.

The director looked more numb now than ever.  Tabea’s words had given him a rude blow, and he could not at once recover.  His lips moved without speaking, and his face assumed a look betokening inward suffering.

“Great God of wisdom, must I then tell her?” said Friedsam when he got breath.  He stood up and gazed out of the square window in indecision.

“Tabea,” he said presently, turning full upon her and looking into her now pale face upturned to the light, “I thought my secret would die in my breast, but you wring it from me.  You say that I have no infirmities - no desire for companionship like other men or women.  It is the voice of Sophia, the wisdom of the Almighty, that bids me humble myself before you this day.”

Here he paused in visible but suppressed emotion.  “These things,” he said, pointing to his wooden couch, “these hardships of the body, these self-denials of my vocation, give me no trouble.  I have one great soul-affliction, and that is what you reproach me for lacking, namely, the longing to love and to be loved.  And that trial you laid upon me the first time I saw your face and heard your words in your mother’s house on the Wissahickon.  O Tabea, you are not like the rest! you are not like the rest!  Even when you go wrong, it is not like the rest.  It is the vision of the life I might have led with such a woman as you that troubles my dreams in the night-time, when, across the impassable gulf of my irrevocable vow, I have stretched out my hands in entreaty to you.”

This declaration changed instantly the color of Tabea’s thoughts of life.  Daniel Scheible and his little love scrawls seemed to her lofty spirit as nothing now that she saw herself in the light thrown upon her by the love of the great master whose spirit had evoked Ephrata, and whose genius uttered itself in angelic harmonies.  She loathed the little life that now opened before her.  There seemed nothing in heaven or earth so desirable as to possess the esteem of Friedsam.  But she stood silent and condemned.

“I have had one comfort,” proceeded Brother Friedsam after a while.  “When I have perceived your strength of character, when I have heard your exquisite voice uttering the melodies with which I am inspired, I have thought my work was sweeter because Tabea shared it, and I have hoped that you would yet more and more share it as years and discipline should ripen your spirit.”

The director felt faint; he sat down and looked dejectedly into the corner of the room farthest away from where Tabea stood.  He roused himself in a few moments, and turned about again, to find Tabea kneeling on the flagstones before him.

“I have denied the Lord!” she moaned, for her judgment had now come completely round to Friedsam’s standpoint.  His condemnation seemed bitterer than death.  “Brother Friedsam, I have denied the Lord!”

Friedsam regarded the kneeling figure for a moment, and then he reached out his hands, solemnly placing them on her head with a motherly tenderness, while a tremor went through his frame.

“Thou, dear child, shalt do thy first work over again,” he said.  “Thou shalt take a new vow, and when thou art converted then shalt thou, like Peter, strengthen the others.”  And, withdrawing his hands, he said:  “I will pray for you, Tabea, every night of my life when I hear the cock crow.”

Tabea rose up slowly and went out at the door, walking no longer like a Hofcavalier, but like one in a trance.  Dimly she saw the sisters standing without the door of Sharon; there was Thecla, with half-amused face, and there was Persida, curious as ever; there were Sister Petronella and Sister Blandina and others, and behind all the straight, tall form of austere Jael.  Without turning to the right or to the left, Tabea directed her steps to the group at the door of Sharon.

“No! no! come, dear Tabea!” It was the voice of Daniel Scheible, whose existence she had almost forgotten.

“Poor Daniel!” she said, pausing and looking at him with pity.

“Don’t say ‘Poor Daniel,’ but come.”

“Poor boy!” said Tabea.

You are bewitched!” he cried, seizing her and drawing her away.  “I knew Friedsam would put a charm on you.”

She absently allowed him to lead her a few steps; then, with another look full of tender pity and regret at his agitated face, she extricated herself from his embrace and walked rapidly to the door.  Quickening her steps to escape his pursuing grasp, she pushed through the group of sisters and fled along the hallway and up the stairs, closing the door of her cell and fastening down the latch.

Scheible, sure that she was under some evil spell, rushed after her, shook himself loose from the grip of Sister Jael, who sought to stop him, and reached the door of Tabea’s cell.  But all his knocking brought not one word of answer, and after a while Brother Jabez came in and led the poor fellow out, to the great grief of Sister Persida, who in her heart thought it a pity to spoil a wedding.

The sisters who came to call Tabea to supper that evening also failed to elicit any response.  Late in the night, when she had become calm, Tabea heard the crowing of a cock, and her heart was deeply touched at the thought that Friedsam, the revered Friedsam, now more than ever the beloved of her soul, was at that moment going to prayer for the disciple who had broken her vow.  She rose from her bench and fell on her knees; and if she mistook the mingled feelings of penitence and human passion for pure devotion, she made the commonest mistake of enthusiastic spirits.

But she was not left long to doubt that Friedsam had remembered her; by the time that the cock had crowed the second time the sound of the monastery bell, the rope of which hung just by Friedsam’s bedside, broke abruptly into the deathlike stillness, calling the monks and nuns of Ephrata to a solemn night service.  Tabea felt sure that Friedsam had called the meeting at this moment by way of assuring her of his remembrance.

Daniel Scheible, who had wandered back to the neighborhood in the aimlessness of disappointment, heard the monastery bell waking all the reverberations of the forest, and saw light after light twinkle from the little square windows of Bethany and Sharon; then he saw the monks and nuns come out of Bethany and Sharon, each carrying a small paper lantern as they hastened to Zion.  The bell ceased, and Zion, which before had been wrapped in night, shone with light from every window, and there rose upon the silence the voices of the choruses chanting an antiphonal song; and disconsolate Scheible cursed Friedsam and Ephrata, and went off into outer darkness.

When the first strophe had been sung below, and the sweet-voiced sisters caught up the antistrophe, Brother Friedsam, sitting in the midst, listened with painful attention, vainly trying to detect the sound of Tabea’s voice.  But when the second strophe had been sung, and the sisters began their second response, a thrill of excitement went through all as the long-silent voice of Sister Tabea rose above the rest with even more than its old fervor and expression.

And the next Saturday - for the seventh day was the Ephrata Sabbath - Tabea took a new, solemn, and irrevocable vow; and from that time until the day of her death she was called Sister Anastasia - the name signifying that she had been re-established.  What source of consolation Anastasia had the rest never divined.  How should they guess that alongside her religious fervor a human love grew ethereally like an air plant?