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Title: Lady Rosamond's book

or, Dawnings of light

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: December 15, 2023 [eBook #72426]

Language: English

Original publication: London: John F. Shaw and Co, 1903

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LADY ROSAMOND'S BOOK ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

She climbed over the wall by the beehives.
The gardener had left his ladder close by.

The Stanton-Corbet Chronicles.

[Year 1529]

Lady Rosamond's Book;

OR,

DAWNINGS OF LIGHT.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF
"LADY BETTY'S GOVERNESS;" "WINIFRED."

NEW EDITION.

LONDON:

JOHN F. SHAW & CO.

48 Paternoster Row, E.C.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. St. Swithin's Day, in the year of Grace, 1529.

II.

III. Feast of St. Agnes, April 20.

IV. Feast of St. Catherine, April 29.

V. Eve of St. John, May 5th.

VI. May 15th.

VII. St. John Baptist's Day, June 24.

VIII.

IX. July 14.

X. St. Mary Magdalene, July 21.

XI. August 1.

XII. August 2.

XIII. August 12, Feast of St. Clare.

XIV. August 14.

XV. August 25.

XVI. St. Michael's Eve, Sept. 28.

XVII. October 28.

XVIII. All Saints' Day, Nov. 2.

XIX. Nov. 4.

XX. Nov. 8th.

XXI. Corby End, April 20, 1530.

XXII. April 23.

XXIII.

XXIV. April 25, Sunday.

XXV. April 30.

XXVI. May 12.

XXVII. June 1.

XXVIII.

XXIX. June 20.

XXX. June 30.

XXXI. June 30.

XXXII. July 20, Tremador, in Cornwall.

XXXIII. July 30.

XXXIV. Aug. 3.

XXXV. Aug. 5.

XXXVI. Aug. 18.

XXXVII. Aug. 20.

XXXVIII. Aug. 30—the day after.

XXXIX. Coombe Ashton, Sept. 10.

XL. Sept. 12.

XLI. St. Ethelburga's Shrine, Sept. 30.

XLII. Tremador, All Saints' Day, Nov. 1.

XLIII. Stanton Court, May 12, 1590.

THE PREAMBLE.

Stanton Court, August 21.       

I FOUND the original of this book (1710) in my father's library. Remembering well, when I was a child, how my dear and honored mother used to value it, and how she used sometimes to read to us young ones little bits therefrom, I was led to peruse it myself; and since that time I have amused my leisure hours by making a fair copy of the chronicle (for such it really is) as a present to my dear child and charge, the Lady Lucy Stanton.

Amy Rosamond Stanton, spoken of at the end of the book, was my grandmother, my father's mother. She was in many respects a peculiar person, very beautiful and accomplished, but uncommonly retiring and serious in her tastes, given to study and solitary meditation, specially after the death of her husband. My mother ever loved her as an own mother, and we have still her portrait. It represents a beautiful woman indeed, but so absolutely fair and colorless as to seem almost unreal.

There is a tradition in the family that this wonderful fairness is derived from a certain personage called "The Fair Dame of Stanton," whom one of the Lords of Stanton married in foreign parts. The story goes that this fair dame was one of those strange creatures, neither quite spiritual nor yet wholly human, a kind of Melusina or Tiphane Le Fee, and that she vanished at last in some strange fashion, leaving two children. The common people, and some who should be above such notions, believe that the Fair Dame doth sometimes return in the person of one of her descendants, and that such a return always bodes woe to the family. But this is all nonsense. So much is true that the lady came from foreign parts, and that she was possessed of this curious fair beauty, which now and then reappears in the person of some descendant of hers, as in the case of my grandame. She had some peculiarities of religious belief, probably inherited from her Albigensian ancestors, and 'tis certain that she possessed a copy of Holy Scripture as done into English by Wickliffe. This book was found concealed in the apartment known as the Fair Dame's bower, and is still preserved in our library.

My mother also wrote a chronicle of her young days, which is one of my most precious possessions. I would fain have my Lucy do the same, but she is a true Stanton, and cares little for books, being a born housewife. Her father has married a second time, and has a son, so that Lucy is no longer the sole hope of the race. She gets on well with her stepmother, who is an amiable young lady, not so many years her senior as I could wish, but still she loves best to pass her time here with me, in this home of my youth, which my Lord has most kindly fitted up and given me for my life. I have a widowed daughter, who lives with me, and plenty of grandchildren to visit me, so that I am never lonely. But I meant not to write the history of my own life, but only to give an account of this book.

DEBORAH CORBET.

LADY ROSAMOND'S BOOK.

Edmund Andrews, for sea fisshe . . . . . . . £0. ivs.    xd.

John Earle, for spice. . . . . . . . . . . .     ixs.   ixd.

Thomas Smith, dried ling . . . . . . . . . .      vs. iiiid.

Mistress Ashe, a webbe of white hollands . .    xivs.

John Earle, spices, dates and almond . . . . £0.  is.    xd.

Mistress Ashe, needles, silk and thread. . .   viiis.

Mistress Ashe, a webbe of fine diaper. . . .     xls.   ixd.

CHAPTER I.

I SUPPOSE I had better begin by telling how I came by this book, though that is not the beginning either, but perhaps it will do as well as any other to start from. Dear Mother says I am to write a chronicle of my life, as it seems some ladies of our family have done before me. So here I begin by first putting the date:

St. Swithin's Day, in the year of Grace, 1529.        

Dear Mother Superior was in the library this morning, looking at the work I have been helping Sister Gertrude to finish, of putting the books in order, and writing out a fair list of them. Sister Gertrude cannot write on account of her eyes, and she does not know Latin, and as I do, and can write a fair hand, I was able to help her, which pleased us both well.

[I do shrewdly suspect there was another hindrance more vital than the dear Sister's eyes, but I would not have hinted such a thing for the world. If she did not know writing, she knew many another thing better worth knowing.] *

Well, Mother Superior did commend our diligence, and gave Sister Gertrude much praise, which she in turn transferred to me, at which Sister Catherine, who must be on hand as usual, exclaimed:

"What holy humility Sister Gertrude shows!"

"Nay, I thought not of humility, but only of justice, and giving the child her due," answered Sister Gertrude.

"I fear 'twill be long before our dear young Rosamond emulates your example," continued Sister Catherine, as if Sister Gertrude had not spoken. "I fear her gifts are but a snare to her in that respect. Dear Rosamond, remember nothing was so dear to St. Frances as humility."

* The sentences in brackets were writ on the margin of Lady Rosamond's book, but in transcribing I have put them in the body of the work. Most of them seem to have been added at a later date.—D. C.

"Sister Catherine, is not your charge in the wardrobe at this hour?" asked Mother Superior (methought somewhat dryly). Sister Catherine retired without a word, but I can't say she looked very humble. If she were not a devoted religious, I should say she looked ready to bite.

"You have made a good piece of work between you, my children," said Mother; "and now we are in order, we must keep in order. 'Tis not often that a lady's house possesses so many books as ours, and we have, I fear, hardly prized them as we ought. When Rosamond comes to be abbess, she will make our poor house a seminary of learning."

"What have you got there, child?"

"'Tis a great book of blank paper, dear Mother," said I, showing this book to her. "It has been begun as an accompt, as I think, and then as a receipt, but it is mostly empty."

"And you would like to fill it?" said Mother, smiling: "Well, well, you have been a good maid, and deserve a reward. You shall have the book, and write a chronicle of your life therein, as did your great grandame of hers. You are a true Corbet, and 'Corbys will have quills,' is an old saying of your house."

I was well pleased, for I do love to write; but what can I say about my own life, only the little things which happen every day, and much the same to every one. To be sure, in the lives of saints, as well as in the history books, I do love best to read about the common things, even such as what they ate, and how they slept, and so on. It seems to bring them nearer to one. Not that I shall ever be a saint, I am sure. Sister Catherine was right there. I should be more likely to make a good housewife. Sometimes I fear I have no vocation at all, though I have, as it were, grown up with a veil on my face. Richard Stanton used to say I should never make a nun.

Now I am going to begin my life. My name is Rosamond Corbet, and I was born in Devonshire. My father is a worshipful knight, Stephen Corbet by name, and my mother Alice Stanton, a niece of my Lord Stanton, at the great house. The Corbets are the elder family, having lived at Fresh Water long before the Stantons, who only came in with the Conqueror. The name used to be writ Corby, and the common folk call it so to this day. The corby, or hooded crow, is the cognizance of our house, and this bird, commonly of evil omen, is said to be lucky to our race. 'Tis not a nice bird, and I could wish we had an eagle or a falcon to our crests; but after all they are alike birds of prey. They say we are not Saxon, but British in descent, and that is how we come by our black hair and eyes. The Stantons, who should, methinks, be dark, are all fair.

I was the youngest of my family. My mother was a great friend of the Lady Margaret Vernon, our dear Mother Superior. It was thought at one time she had herself a strong vocation, but she met with Sir Stephen, and there was an end of that. So to make amends, I suppose, she promised her second girl to this house, or her first, if she had but one. So I, being the second maid, the lot fell on me, and I have spent at least half my time here since I was five years old. I like it well enough too, though I confess I am now and then glad to get back home and run about the woods' and sands, and play with the babes in the cottages. I do love children, specially young children. I think my vocation will be to teaching, or else to the pantry and pastry-room. Once I told Sister Gertrude so, and she said it reminded her of her younger brother, who when asked what he would do when he was grown up, answered that he would be a bishop, or else a fisherman, like old Will Lee.

Once I stayed at home six years. It was then I learned to write and to construe Latin, from my brother's tutor, Master Ellenwood. I was always a great pet of his, and when he offered to teach me Latin, my father made no objection, saying that a little learning would do me no harm, and might sometime stand me in good stead.

That was a happy time. We three young ones and Dick Stanton studied together all the morning, and played together all the afternoon, save for the two hours or so of needlework, and the like, which my mother exacted from us girls. I may say without vanity that brother Henry and I were the best scholars. Alice was passable, but poor Dick was always in disgrace. In all the manly exercises, such as riding the great horse, shooting with both long and cross-bow, sword play, and so on, however, Dick was far beyond any of the other lads. So he was in managing a horse, a dog, or a hawk, and 'twas wonderful how all dumb creatures loved him. Now he is a squire in France, with my Lord his uncle, and I am here. I don't suppose I shall ever see him again in this world.

My mother was alive then. She was a most notable lady, always very still and quiet, but attending well to the ways of her household, and keeping all in their places, not by any assumption of greatness, but by the dignity and kindness of her own manners. She was a most kind mother, but not so fond as some, at least to me. It used to trouble me sometimes, till one day, by chance, I found out the reason, by overhearing some words spoken between her and an old gentlewoman, a kinswoman of hers, who stayed some time with her.

"Methinks Rosamond is no favorite," said my old lady. "And yet 'tis a good, docile little maid, more to my mind than Alice, with all her beauty."

"You are right, kinswoman," replied my mother; "but he who has the keeping of another's treasure, if he be wise, does not suffer himself to be overmuch looking upon or handling, the same. Rosamond is not mine. She is given to the Church, and I dare not give my mother's heart its way with her, lest my natural affections should rise up against my Lord's demands."

[I remember my own heart rather rose against this doctrine, even then. It seemed to me that our Lord cared for His own mother even on the cross. I knew that much, though I had never seen the Scriptures at that time, and I could not see why He should have given people natural affections only to be trampled on. Now I know that St. Paul places them who are without natural affection in no flattering category.]

When I showed this that I have written to dear mother, she said I must run my pen through what I wrote about Sister Catherine.* She said we must concern ourselves with our own faults and not with those of others. But somehow our own faults and other people's will get mixed together.

* So she did, but not so that I could not read it, and I judged best to write it out with the rest.—D. C.

CHAPTER II.

TO go on with my own life. One year ago my dear mother died, leaving us young ones to comfort my father, who sorely needed comfort, for he and mother were all in all to each other. Alice, who is three years older than I am, was betrothed to Sir John Fulton's eldest son, and by mother's special desire the wedding was hastened that she might have the pleasure of seeing, as she said, both her daughters settled in life. I think she would have liked me to make my profession also, though she would have grieved to part with me, but both my father and our good parish priest were against it, and even Mother Superior did not favor the notion. They all said I was far too young to know mine own mind, and that I ought not to take the irrevocable vows till I was eighteen at the least. So mother gave way.

Her death followed my sister's marriage so quickly, that the flowers I had gathered for her that day were not fairly withered when I plucked rosemary and rue to lay on her winding sheet. She passed sitting in her chair, and so quickly, that there was no time for the last sacraments: for we had not thought her in any imminent danger, though we all knew she must die soon. My father has spent much money in masses, and talks of building a chantry, with endowment for a priest to sing for her soul. The thought of my dear mother in purgatory ought to make me a saint, if nothing else did.

Father clung to me very closely, and could hardly bear me out of his sight after mother died, and yet he himself hurried my return to this place. It seemed hard that I could not stay and comfort him, Alice being away; but when I hinted at it, he reproved me, even sternly.

"Child, child! Would you make matters worse than they are now, by taking back what your mother gave? What is my comfort for a few days or years? Go—go, and pray for your mother's soul!"

What could I say but that I would go? Besides, it really is no great hardship. I love this house, and the Sisters, and they are all very good to me; even Sister Catherine means to be, I am sure, only she is so very strict. She says we are a shame to our order—we are Bernardines—and that if St. Francis were to come to earth again, he would not own us. Sister Catherine says the very fact of Amice and myself being in the house, as we are not novices, nor yet regular postulants, shows how far we have degenerated, and that it is enough to bring down a judgment on us. She talks about going to London and joining a house of Poor Clares, notable for the extreme strictness of their rule. I wish she would, I am sure.

I don't think myself that we are very strict—not nearly so much so as St. Clare was when she was on earth. Still we observe the canonical hours carefully, at least the nuns do, for Mother will not let us young ones be called up at night—and we do a great deal for the poor. Some half dozen families in the village here are clothed and fed by our community almost entirely. That same Roger Smith has help all the time, and yet he will not bring us so much as an eel without having the full price for it.

There are twenty professed nuns in this house, besides the Superior, Margaret Vernon, the Sacristine, Mother Agnes, Mother Gertrude, who has the principal charge of the novices and of us young ones, and Sister Catherine, whose charge is the wardrobe and linen-room and whose business is everyones but her own. Then there are three novices, Anne, Clara, and Frances, and Amice and myself, who for fault of a better name, are called pupils.

Amice Crocker is an orphan girl, niece to Mother Gertrude, and has no home but this. She is very devout, and seems to have a real vocation. She is always reading lives of the Saints, and trying to imitate their example, but her imitations do not always work very well. For instance, the other day Mother Gertrude sent her to the wardrobe to bring down some garments which were wanted in a hurry for a poor woman. She was gone fully half an hour, and at the last I was sent to look for her. I found her coming down very slowly; indeed she was pausing a minute or more on every stair.

"Amice, what makes you so slow?" I exclaimed, rather vexed. "Don't you know Mother is waiting?"

She did not answer me, but continued coming down a step and stopping, till Mother Gertrude herself came to see what was the matter, just as she reached the bottom.

"What ails the child?" said Mother, rather sharply. "The man would wait no longer, and now the poor woman must go without her cloak."

"I am very sorry!" answered Amice, meekly. "I was trying to emulate the example of that blessed young Saint, Sister Catherine was reading of yesterday; who, when he went up-stairs, always paused to say a prayer on every step."

I saw Mother's eyes twinkle, and the corners of her mouth twitch.

"Well, well, I wont scold you, child, but remember the next time you are sent on an errand that your business is to do the errand, and try rather to follow the example of St. Anthony, and be in two places at once."

I saw Amice was mortified. When we went away together she was silent a little, and I could see she was trying to keep back her tears. Presently she said:

"Rosamond, I think it is very hard to follow the example of the Saints. There are so many of them, and they are so very different."

"Perhaps it would be well to pick out one, and keep him for a model," said I.

"But how?" asked Amice. "Now, this same saint, for instance. When he was only five years old, he wanted a friar's habit, and he cried till he got it."

"He would have cried a long time if he had my mother to deal with!" said I. "Or rather, I think his crying would have been cut short rather suddenly."

"Just so!" said Amice. "We were taught to obey our parents in all things. Then, again, when he was eight years old, he saw his mother in a red dress, and reproved her severely, telling her that the color would drag her down to the flames of hell. Now I think (and I can't help thinking), that Sister Catherine's way of snubbing and putting down poor Sister Bridget (though she does say silly things, to be sure), is worse than wearing a red gown: but suppose I should reprove her, what do you think would happen?"

"I can guess!" said I, and we both laughed; but Amice looked very sober again, directly.

"So you see, Rosamond, I don't know what to do, because whatever Saint you choose for a model, you seem to run against somebody. And that makes me say I wish there were not so many."

"If we knew all about our Lady, or one of the Holy Apostles," said I, doubtfully; "or suppose you should take St. Clare, or St. Agnes."

"Well, St. Clare did not obey her parents either; she ran away from her father's house at midnight, and went to St. Frances!"

"Yes, but that was because she had such a high vocation," I answered, "and her parents opposed her. I suppose that is different. Anyhow, Amice, we can do as we are told, and that is always a comfort. Perhaps it is the safest way for girls like us."

"If we had our Lord's life, that would be the best of all," continued Amice, not paying much attention to my words: "but then, of course, we never could hope to follow that, when we cannot even reach the example of Saint Francis and Saint Clare. Anyhow, I wish I could read it for once—all of it."

"Why, Amice, how can you say such a thing?" said I, rather sharply, I am afraid. "Don't you know what Father Fabian said in his sermon—that it was the reading of the Scriptures by unlearned men which made all the heresies and schisms which have come up in Germany and the Low Countries?"

Amice looked so distressed that I was sorry for my words directly.

"I am sure I don't want to be a heretic, or anything else that is wrong!" said she, with tears in her eyes. "I would like to please everybody, but somehow I am always going wrong and making mistakes, as I did to-day. I keep seeing that poor woman going over the moors in the cold wind, without any cloak, and yet I meant no harm."

"I am sure you never mean to be anything but the dearest girl in the world," said I, kissing her. "As to what happened to-day, I wouldn't think of it any more."

"I don't see that I can do anything about it now, only to make it an occasion of humility," says Amice.

"I don't think you can do anything better with it than to let it alone and think about something else," says I, and so the matter ended.

CHAPTER III.

Feast of St. Agnes, April 20.        

A YEAR ago at this time I was at home, busily preparing flowers and wreaths for my sister's bridal, under dear mother's eye. I knew Alice wanted violets, and Dick and I went to search for them in the coombe, where the banks being shady, the violets do longest linger. When we had filled our baskets with the flowers, which we found in abundance, both white and blue, we sat down a little on the moss to listen to the singing of the birds and the lapse of the water. These gentle sounds, albeit most sweet and tender, did somewhat dispose us to silence, if not melancholy. Presently Richard said:

"I wonder where we shall be a year from now, Rosamond? You know this same spring used to be a favorite haunt of the Fair Dame of Stanton, my ancestress. They say she used to see in the bosom of the water, as in a mirror, all that was to come to pass."

"I can tell pretty well where we shall be a year from now, without any of the Fair Dame's art," said I. "You know she was said to be a heretic, if not worse."

"Yes, but I don't believe it!" answered Dick, valiantly. "I believe she was a good woman, and a good wife. But since you know so well, tell me where we shall be?"

"You will be in France with my Lord your uncle," said I, "or else attending him at Court, winning your spurs by brave deeds, or dancing with fair dames and damsels; and I shall be at the convent, working of cut-work copes and altar-cloths in silk and gold; or helping Mother Gertrude dry herbs, and distil cordials, and make comfits: or studying the lives of the Saints; or—"

"Be wasting your time and youth on some nonsense or other," interrupted Richard, who never could bear to hear of my being a nun. "It is a shame!"

"It was my mother's doing, and I will not hear a word against it!" said I. "Besides, I don't know why I shouldn't be happy there as well as anywhere else. A great many nuns are happy, and beside that, Dick, to be happy is not the business of life."

Dick received this remark with the grunt which he always bestows on my wise speeches, and we were silent for a time. Then Dick said passionately, all at once—pointing to a chaffinch, a dear little fowl, which sat on a twig singing his very heart out, "Sweetheart! Sweetheart!" over and over again:

"Rosamond, nothing shall make me think that yonder bird does not serve God just as acceptably while he is flitting about gathering food for his young ones, and singing in the free air of heaven, as if he were shut behind the bars of a cage, singing the same song over and over, after the old bird-catcher's whistle."

"The bird is only a bird," I answered, "and, as Master Ellenwood often tells us, comparisons are no arguments. Besides, Dick, I have to go, so where is the use of repining? My mother has promised for me, and I have promised her again this very day (and so I had); so where is the use of an argument?"

"It's a shame!" said Dick, passionately; adding, "If you cared for me as I do for you, you wouldn't talk so coolly of its being an end."

Whereat there was nothing to do but to rise and return to the house.

I don't know why I have written this down, only it is a part of my life. There can be no harm in it, because Richard and I can never be anything to each other—not even brother and sister—because a good religious knows no ties of natural affection. No doubt the coombe is full this very day of violets and primroses, and all other sweet flowers, and the spring is welling up and running over its basin all among the moss and fern, and the brook liverwort; and I dare say the very same chaffinch is singing there this minute. There are violets in our convent garden as well, but they are planted in a straight bed, and Mother Gabrielle uses the flowers to make her sirups, and the leaves are gathered for our sallets. There is a spring, too, but not one bit like that in the coombe. That boils up out of a deep and wide cleft in the rock, filling its basin full and running over the stones in twenty little vagrant streams. Great ferns grow over and shade it, and leaves drop into it in the autumn, and birds and wild-wood creatures come to drink of its waters. This pours in a steady orderly stream from a pipe which sticks straight out from the wall, and runs down a straight course, paved and edged with cut stone, into the stew-pond where we keep our fish.

Still our convent garden is a sweet and pretty place, full of orderly knots and beds of flowers and herbs, chiefly such as are good to distil cordials, or to help out our messes on fast days—rue, and mints, and hyssops, and angelica, and caraway, and burnet—with abundance of roses, and poppies, and white lilies, and a long bed of sweet flowers for the bees.

We have a fine stock of beehives. Then we have plum and pear and apple trees, and a bed of strawberries. At the end of the garden are two most ancient elm trees, and under them a very small, and very, very old chapel of our Lady of Sorrows. Dear Mother says it is by far the oldest part of the convent. It is very small, as I said, built of huge stones, with low heavy arches. Over the altar stands the image of our Lady, rudely carved in some dark wood. It is a very holy image, and used to work miracles in old times. I wish it would again. I should dearly love to see a miracle.

At the back of this chapel, and joining it, so as to be under the same roof, is another building, very low and massive, with no windows, but one very narrow slit, close under the eaves. A heavy iron-studded door opens into it from the chapel itself. Mother Gertrude told me one day that it contained the staircase leading to a burial vault under the chapel, now never used, and that it had not been opened for years and years.

The Sisters are not fond of this shrine, holy as it is, and I think they are afraid of it. Indeed I know Sister Bridget told me that if an unfaithful nun were to watch there over night, she would be found dead on the floor in the morning—if indeed a ghost or demon did not arise from the vault and drag her down to a living death below.

"I should not think a ghost would dare to come into the sacred place!" said Amice.

"Evil spirits have power over the unfaithful, wherever they are—remember that, child!" said Sister Bridget, solemnly.

"And over the faithful too, sometimes," said Amice, who is as usual reading the lives of Saints. "I am sure St. Frances was dreadfully disturbed by them."

"Power to disturb, but not to destroy them, child. But prayers offered at that shrine have great efficacy for the deliverance of souls from purgatory," said old Mother Mary Monica, who is the oldest person in the house, and very fond of the company of us young ones. "If any one had a friend in purgatory, and should watch all night in prayer before that image, it would go far to deliver him."

"Do you really think so, Mother?" I asked.

"Think so, child! I know it for a truth. The blessed Saint Ethelburga herself tried it, and was assured by a vision and a miracle that her prayers were granted. Eh dear, I could tell you many stories of miracles, my daughters. They used to be plenty in my young days. Why, I was converted by a miracle myself."

"Tell us about it, dear Mother, will you?" said Amice and I both together; and Amice added, "See, here is a nice seat, and the warm sun is good for your pains, you know."

So she sat down, the good old soul, and Amice and I on stones at her feet, and she told us the tale. I will set it down just as I remember it.

"You must know, my children, that I was a giddy young girl in attendance on the Queen—not the Queen that now is, but Queen Elizabeth, wife of Henry the Seventh, this King's father—when I went with my mistress to make a retreat at the convent of the poor Clares, in London—"

"The same that Sister Catherine is always praising," said I.

"Yes, the very same; but don't you put me out. Where was I?"

"Where you went with the Queen to make a retreat, dear Mother."

"O yes. Well, I had been a giddy girl, as I told you, but I had been somewhat sobered of late, because my cousin Jack, whom my father always meant I should wed, had been on the wrong side in the late troubles, and was in hiding at that time. Now, I liked Jack right well, and was minded to marry none other; but I was a King's ward, my father being dead, and I having a good fortune. So I had a many suitors, and I knew the King was favorable to a knight, Sir Edward Peckham, of Somerset, who had come to him with help just at the right time. Now, I wanted nobody but Jack; but of all my suitors there was none that I misliked so much as Sir Edward Peckham!"

"Why?" asked I, much interested.

"Because I could not abide him, child. That was reason enough. Well, things being even in this shape, I was glad enough when my mistress made her retreat in the convent of the Poor Clares, and chose me to attend on her, out of all her train. That was a strict order, children. Matins at one o'clock in the morning—not overnight, as we have them here—no food till dinner at eleven, and no flesh meat even on feast days—almost perpetual silence! Well, it was always and ever my way to fall in with whatever was going on, let it be what it might; so I fasted and prayed with the best, and kept all the hours, till I was so tired I could hardly stand. In the midst of it all came a messenger to my mistress from the King, bidding her return to the Court in three days and bring me with her, for the King was minded that my marriage should no longer be put off.

"Children, I was like one distracted, and I was all but ready to cast myself away, body and soul. The Mother Superior marked my grief, and I was won to tell her the whole. She was an austere woman—not one bit like our Mother—but she was very kind to me in my trouble—"

"I am sure our dear Mother Superior is a saint, if ever there was one," said I.

"That she is, that she is, child; but there may be a difference in saints, you know. Well, Mother Superior pitied my grief, and soothed me, and when I was quieted like, she councilled me to watch all night before a shrine in which were some very holy relics—specially part of the veil of St. Clare, our blessed founder."

"'Perhaps the Saint may take pity on you and show you the way out of your present troubles,' said she. 'Fast this day from all food, my daughter, and this night I will myself conduct you to the shrine where you are to watch.'"

"Well, children, I did fast and say my rosary all the rest of the day, till I was ready to drop; and at nine at night the Mother Superior led me to a little chapel off the church, where was the shrine of St. Clare. It was all dark—only looking toward the church I could just see the glimmer of the ever-burning lamp, before the Holy Sacrament of the Altar. Here she left me, and here I was to kneel till daylight, saying my prayers and the seven psalms."

"I don't see how you could kneel so long," said Amice.

"I might lie prone a part of the time, if I would," replied Mother Mary Monica, "and so indeed I did. I don't know what time it was—somewhere before Matins, and I know not whether overcome with fatigue I had not dozed a little, when I was waked by a bright light. I raised myself on my knees, and looking toward the altar, I saw the figure of St. Clare surrounded by a clear but mild radiance, and holding out to me in her hand a nun's veil, while a voice of heavenly sweetness, said to me these words: 'Here, my child, is thy only refuge.' The light faded away, and I sunk down—in a swoon this time, for when some of the Sisters came to seek me at prime, they found me pale and lifeless, while—mark, my daughters—on my head was laid that most sacred relic, the veil of St. Clare—yes, on this unworthy head the blessed veil was laid."

We both looked at the good Mother in a kind of awe.

"Well, I told the good Sisters and my mistress what I had seen. There could be no doubt after that in my mind, especially as two or three days after I had certain news of Jack's death. The King would not hear of my profession at first, but the Prior of the Franciscans took my part, and his Majesty would not have liked setting the whole of the Gray Friars against him; so he gave way, and even paid over my portion, which must have gone hard, for his blessed Majesty was fond of money; and Sir Edward went home riding alone, with a flea in his ear, instead of a bride by his side. Marry him, indeed, with his thin legs and his long lean jaws! So that is the way I was converted, my children, and got my own way, by the help of the Blessed St. Clare, to whom I have always had a particular devotion ever since. And who knows what miracles might be vouchsafed to you, if you were to watch all night before the shrine of our Lady?"

We had no time for any more talk just then, but ever since I have been turning over in my mind what Mother Mary Monica said. It does seem dreadful to me—the thought of watching all night and alone in that dreary place without a light. To be sure, the moon is at the full, and would shine directly into the great window, but then those dreadful vaults, and Sister Bridget's story do so run in my head. Every time the wind shook the ivy or whistled in the loopholes of the stones, I should fancy it a rustle among the graves below, or the grating of that heavy door on its hinges. And then, so cold and damp.

Wretch that I am, to weigh these things one moment in the balance against my dear mother's soul! I feel sure that she could not have died in mortal sin, but to pass without the sacraments, without one moment's warning! Oh, it is dreadful! And then her marrying instead of taking the veil. That I think troubles dear Mother Superior worse than anything. Yes, I am quite resolved. I will watch this very night before the shrine in the garden chapel; but I will tell nobody of my resolve, save Amice and Mother Gertrude. I don't want the whole flock exclaiming, pitying or praising me, or hinting at my setting up for a saint, as some of them do.

[Of course, being now enlightened by Holy Scripture, I do not believe that my dear mother was benefitted by my watching, nor indeed that she needed such benefit; but I will ever maintain that the exertion to overcome my own fears (which were very terrible), for my mother's sake, was of great service to me. 'Twas a true act of self-sacrifice, though done in ignorance, and that not to pile up a stock of merit for myself, but to do good to another.]

CHAPTER IV.

Feast of St. Catherine, April 29.        

THIS is the first time I have been able to write since my watching at our Lady's shrine, at which time I took such a chill and rheum as have kept me laid up ever since. Mother Gertrude was much opposed thereto, but could say nothing against it, seeing that Mother Superior had given her consent.

"If she wants to send the child after her mother, she has taken the next way to do it," I heard her mutter to herself.

"Why, dear Mother, should you have such fears for me," I asked. "I have lately confessed (and so I had the day before), and I am sure I am not false to my vows, because I have never taken any. Why, then, should the demon have power over me?"

"I was not thinking of the demon, child, but of the damp," answered Mother Gertrude, in her matter-of-fact way. "However I say no more. I know how to be obedient, after all these years. And nobody can deny but it is a good daughter's heart which moves thee, my child, and so God and all the Saints bless thee."

Amice would have shared my watch, only it was needful one should go alone; but she promised to watch in her cell. She went with me to the chapel door, as did Mother Gertrude, and we said some prayers together. Then, as the hour of nine tolled, they kissed me and went their way, leaving me to my solitary watch and ward.

Oh, what a lone and long night it was! I did not mind it so much before midnight, for the moon shone fair into the great east window, and two nightingales, in the garden outside, answered each other most melodiously from side to side. My mother ever loved the nightingale above all other birds, because she said its song reminded her of her young days in the midland of England. They are rare visitors with us. But, as I said, dear mother ever loved this bird's song, and now their voices seemed to come as a message from herself, in approval of what I was doing. I knelt on the cold stones, before our Lady's shrine, saying my rosary, and repeating of Psalms, and the first two hours did not seem so very long. But the birds stopped singing. The moon moved on her course, so that the chapel was left almost in darkness. The south-west wind rose and brought with it all kinds of dismal sounds, now moaning and sobbing at the casement, and shaking it as if to gain an entrance; now, as it seemed, whispering in the vaults under my feet, as if the ghosts might be holding a consultation as to the best way of surprising me. Anon, the great heavy door of which I have before spoken, did a little jar on its hinges, and from behind it came, as it seemed, the rustling of wings, and then a thrilling cry as of a soul in pain.

I felt my blood grow cold, and my flesh creep, and my head swim. But 'tis not the custom of our house for the women more than the men to give way to fear, and I was determined I would not be overcome. I said stoutly to myself, "That sobbing and whispering is of the wind—those wings are the wings of bats or owls, which have found refuge in the old tower—that is the cry of the little white owl, which I have heard a hundred times at home—that low roar is the rote of the surf which we ever hear at night when the wind is south-west."

So I reasoned with myself, and then to calm myself still farther, I began to repeat the Psalms, of which I know the greater part by heart, thanks to Master Ellenwood, beginning with the Psalm, "Beati, quorum." And here a strange thing happened to me, for no sooner had I repeated the words, "Whoso putteth his trust in the Lord, mercy embraceth him on every side," than there came over me such a wonderful sweetness and confidence as I am not able to describe. I seemed to feel that I was in the very house of God, where no harm could come to me, nor any evil thing hurt me. And 'twas not only for myself that I felt this assurance, but for my dear mother also. "If ever woman did put her trust in God, I am sure she did so," I said to myself, "and therefore, wherever she is, I have His own word for believing her to be embraced in the arms of His mercy."

And with that I went to prayer again, for my father and brother, and for Alice and her husband, and her young babe, and then for poor Dick. And (I know not if right or wrong) I used no form of words, but did pour out my soul almost as freely as if I had been talking alone with mother in her closet, when kneeling beside her, with my arms on her lap, she used graciously to encourage me to pour out all my thoughts and fancies.

If that had been all, there had been no great harm done, mayhap; but from praying for Dick, I fell to thinking of him, and recalling all our passages together, from the early days when my father used to set me behind him on the old pony, and when we used to build forts and castles on the sand of the shore, to our last sad parting, almost a year ago.

'Twas very wrong to indulge such thoughts in such a sacred place, and that I knew, and did constantly strive to bring my mind into a better frame. But the more I tried the more I wandered, and at last I believe I dropped asleep. I could not have slept long, when I was waked by the most horrid screams and cries—now like those of a young child, now like a woman in fits, now like the ravings of a madman, all seemingly in the chapel itself. I fell prostrate on my face, at the same moment that something rushed by me with a great noise, closely pursued by something else, which brushed me as it passed.

Now, though terribly scared, I yet felt my spirit rise as I discovered that the thing had a material existence; and though the cold sweat stood on my forehead, and my heart seemed all but to stop beating, I raised myself once more on my knees and looked around. My eyes had by this time grown used to the dim light, and I could see, crouched on the very step of the altar, a dark creature, which looked at me with green fiery eyes. Then it came to me, and I all but laughed aloud.

"Puss, Puss!" said I.

"Mieeo!" answered a friendly voice, and poor old Tom, our convent cat, came to me, rubbing his head, and purring in quite an ecstasy of joyful surprise.

I saw in a moment how it was. Tom is a regular Lollard of a cat, and cares no more for the Church than the cowhouse—indeed Sister Catherine once found him sitting on the high altar, and would have slain him, had not Mother Superior interfered. He had been entertaining a select party of his own friends in the Lady Chapel, and some cause of dispute arising, he had chased them all out, and remained master of the field.

I took the old fellow in my arms, and caressed him, and he bumped his head against my face, making his prettiest noises. Then I rose and walked to and fro to warm myself a little, for it was very chill, and tried once more to bring my thoughts in order by repeating my favorite Psalm, though not with as much comfort: as before, because of the sin I had committed by thinking of Dick when I should have been praying. However, at the words, "I said I will confess my sins unto the Lord," I found consolation, for I thought, "then I need not wait to confess to Father Fabian, but can make my confession now, in this place."

So I did, and then once more repeating my rosary, I sat down on a rude bench which was there, to rest a few moments. That was the last of my meditations and prayers, for I fell fast asleep, with Puss in my lap, and slept till I was waked by the sun shining into the great east window. I was very sleepy, and could hardly make out where I was; but, however, I said my prayers once more, and then Mother Gertrude came to seek me, and make me go to bed.

Ever since then, my mind has been wonderfully calmed and comforted about my mother. I seem to see her, embraced by mercy on every side, and entered into her rest. So I do not grudge my cold, though it has kept me in bed ten days, during which time Mother Gertrude has fed me with possets and sirups, and good things more than I can eat.

This morning I made a full confession to Father Fabian of my wandering thoughts during my night watch, and the rest. The good old man was very kind, and gave me light penance. I asked him what I must do to prevent such wanderings in future.

"I will consider of that," said he. "You are a Latin scholar, and can write a good hand, they tell me."

I assured him that I could write fair and plain, and had a good knowledge of Latin, so that I could read and write it with ease.

"Ah, well!" said he. "We must find some way to turn these gifts to account. Meantime, daughter, be busy in whatever you find to do whereby you can help others; say your psalms, and meditate on them, and never trouble thyself about the devil."

'Twas an odd saying, methought, for a priest. I told Amice all about my night watch, as I do tell her everything.

"Do you really think—" said she, and then she stopped.

"Well, do I really think what?" I asked, seeing she did not continue.

"Do you think you have any ground for your confidence about your mother, from that verse in the Psalm?"

I felt hurt for a minute, and I suppose my face showed it, for Amice added, "Don't be displeased, Rosamond. I only ask because it seems almost too good to be true. If you should find what seemed to be a precious pearl, you would wish to know whether it really was a pearl, or only an imitation, wouldn't you?"

"To be sure," I answered, and then I considered a little.

"Yes, I do think I have ground for my confidence, though I am not quite sure I can explain it. You know, Amice, the Psalms are inspired—a part of the word of God, and therefore, surely, their promises are to be taken as true. The Psalm says, 'Whoso putteth his trust in the Lord, mercy embraceth him on every side.' Now, I know my dear mother did put her trust in the Lord, if woman ever did in this world, and, therefore, I am at ease for her, though she died without the Sacraments, which was not her fault."

"You used your night watch to good purpose, if you thought out all this," said Amice.

"I did not think it out—it came to me," said I.

"Came to you—how?" asked Amice.

"I can't tell you," I answered, I am afraid, a little impatiently. "I am not used to taking all my thoughts and feelings to pieces, as you do. I only know that it seemed to come to me from outside my own mind—to be breathed into my heart, as somebody might whisper in my ear."

"It is very lovely," said Amice, with a sigh. "It is like some of the visions of the Saints. I think, Rosamond, you will be a Saint, like St. Clare or St. Catherine."

"I don't believe it," said I. "It is a great deal more in your way than mine."

We were busy in the garden while we were talking, gathering rosemary and violets for Mother Gertrude to distil. Amice had her lap full of rosemary, and she sat down and began pulling it into little bits.

"Rosamond," said she, presently, looking about her, and speaking in a low tone, "do you really like the notion of being a nun?"

"To tell you the truth, I never ask myself whether I like it or not," I answered her. "What is the use? I had no choice in the matter myself. Here I am, and I must needs make the best of it. There would be little profit in my asking myself whether I really liked to be a woman instead of a man. I like being here in the garden, pulling flowers for Mother Gertrude, and I like taking care of the books, dusting them and reading a bit here and there, and I like singing in the church, and working for the poor folk, though I should like still better to teach them to work for themselves."

"I suppose, of course, it is the highest life to which one can obtain!" said Amice, thoughtfully. "And yet I suppose it must have been meant that some people should marry and bring up families."

"I suppose it must, since without some such arrangement, the race of religious must come to an end before long," said I.

"Of course!" continued Amice, in the same musing tone. "You know St. Augustine had a mother, and so did St. Frances!"

"Did you ever hear of any one who had not?" said I, laughing. "But to return your question upon yourself, Amice, how do you like the notion of being a nun?"

"Not one bit!" said Amice, with emphasis.

I never was more surprised in my life, for I had always thought that if any one ever had a vocation it was Amice Crocker.

"The life is so narrow!" she continued, with vehemence, pulling so impatiently at her rosemary that she scratched her fingers. "Just look at the most of our sisters."

"Well, what of them?" I asked. "They are very well, I am sure. Sister Catherine is rather prying and meddling, and Sister Bridget is silly, and a good many of them are rather fond of good eating, and of gossip, but they are kindly souls, after all. And where will you find better women than dear Mother Superior, or Mother Gertrude, or a pleasanter companion than Mother Mary Monica, when she is in the mood of telling her old tales?"

"That may be all so, but what does it amount to, after all?" said Amice. "Look at that same Mother Mary Monica. She has been a nun in this and the other house sixty years, and what have those sixty years brought to pass? What has she to show for them?"

"Well, a good deal of embroidery," said I, considering. "She worked that superb altar cloth, and those copes that we use still on grand occasions, and she has made hundreds of pounds of sweetmeats, and gallons on gallons of cordials."

"And the sweetmeats are eaten, and the cordials drank, and in a few years the embroidery—what remains of it—will be rags and dust! Old Dame Lee in the village has ten sons, and I know not how many grandsons and daughters, all good and useful folk."

"And Roger Smith has a dozen children, each one more useless and idle than the other," said I.

"I can't endure the thought of such a life," continued Amice. "It sickens me—it frightens me. I would not be a religious unless I could be a great saint, like St. Clare or St. Catherine.'

"Why don't you, then?" I asked.

She looked strangely at me, methought, but made no reply, and Mother Gertrude calling us, we talked no more at that time. But I have been considering the matter, and I can't but think Amice was wrong. I have seen more of home life than she, and I know that of very necessity a great part of any woman's life—yea, and of almost any man's—must needs be spent in doing the same things over and over again; in making garments to be worn out, and preparing food to be eaten, and hushing children, and ordering the household. All these things have to be done, or there would be no such thing as family life—nay, there could be no convent life—and so long as they are necessary, I think there must be some way of hallowing them and making them acceptable offerings to Heaven, as well as prayers, and watching, and penance. I mean to ask Mother Gertrude.

CHAPTER V.

Eve of St. John, May 5th.        

FATHER FABIAN has set me to work, as he promised, and I like my task very much. I am translating into English the work of a German monk named Thomas à Kempis. The piece is called, "The Imitation of Christ," and is, of course, of a religious character, and is so good, so spiritual, and yet so plain in its teaching, as I think, nothing could be better, unless it were the Holy Gospel itself. There is a great deal of it, and I go on but slowly, for I am desirous of doing my very best therein; and besides I am often impelled to stop and meditate on what I am writing. Besides this, Mother Superior has made me librarian, and I am to keep all the books in order—no very hard task, methinks, when nobody ever touches them but Amice and myself.

Amice still studies the lives of the Saints as diligently as ever. I know not what has come over her, but she seems very much changed the last few days. She is silent and reserved, spends as much of her time alone as she possibly can, eats hardly anything, and only of the plainest and coarsest food. She has always been very open with me, but now even when we are together she says hardly a word. I think I will ask her what is the matter. Maybe I have offended her in some way, though I am sure I don't know how.

This afternoon I had the great pleasure of a visit from my father, who came to consult Father Fabian on the matter of a priest for the chantry he means to build. He looks worn and thin, but says he is well, as are all at home. Alice's babe is a fine boy, at which they are all much pleased, all the Fultons of the second generation so far being maidens. Alice herself is well and happy, and sends me her love and a tiny curl of her boy's hair, of which he has a plenty.

"So he is dark," said I, looking at the pretty tress.

"Aye, black as a Corby," answered my father, smiling more like himself, than I have seen him in a long time. "'Tis a true Corbet brat."

"And yourself, dear father, are you quite well?" I ventured to ask.

"Yes, child, well and over well," he answered, somewhat peevishly, "if this journey to London does not kill me!"

"To London!" I exclaimed. "Dear father, what can take you to London?"

"Even that same need which makes the old wife to trot, chick! I must see my Lord before he goes abroad, concerning certain leases and the like. It is through no good will of mine, I promise thee, for I was never fond either of Court or city in my best days, and now—But how goes it with you, child?" he asked, interrupting himself. "Methinks you are thin and pale."

I told him of my cold, and how I had taken it. I could see he was pleased, though he bade me be careful of my health.

"I would watch a dozen nights myself in the darkest vault under the church if it would do her any good!" he muttered, with so sad a look and such a deep sigh, that I was compelled to speak and tell him how I had been comforted concerning my mother. He listened in silence, and dashed the tears from his eyes when I had done.

"I would—I would I could think so," he said; "but to die without the sacraments—and I was the tempter to lead her from her vocation. But, take comfort, child, if thou canst. It may be thou art right, after all."

"I feel sure of it," said I; and then I reminded him how devout and humble dear mother was—how careful of all those under her government, and how exact in training them to ways of devotion and truth; and I repeated to him sundry verses of the Psalms, on which I had been thinking a great deal of late.

"Well, well, you seem to have thought to good purpose," said he, at last. "Master Ellenwood, at least, would hold with you. He is all for making of my chantry a school for the young maids of the village, where they may learn to spin and sew, and say their prayers, and even to read. He says it would be a better offering to your mother's memory than a useless chapel and a lazy fat priest, such as these chantry clerks often grow to be."

"I am sure mother would be pleased," said I. "You know she always did favor the notion of a school."

"There is something in that," answered my father, ruminating in silence a minute. "Well, child, I must needs go on my way. Hast no word for my Lord and poor Dick, who goes with him to France?"

I sent my humble duty to my Lord, and with Mother Superior's permission, a little book of prayers to Dick, who I know neglects his devotions sometimes. I think he will use the book for my sake. Dear father bestowed on me his blessing, and a beautiful gold and ebony rosary, which had once been mother's, and then rode away. I wondered when I should see him again. It is a very long and not very safe journey to London from these parts.

I showed Mother Superior my rosary, and the little lock of baby's hair. She looked long at the beads, and returned them to me with a sigh.

"I remember them well," said she. "They came from Rome, and have the blessing of our Holy Father the Pope. Did your mother use them?"

"Not often, as I think," I answered. "She liked better a string of beads of carved wood, which she said my father brought her from the East country before she was married."

"Olive wood, belike," said Mother, "though I fear 'twas your father's giving them which made them precious. Your mother's strong and warm natural affections were a snare to her, my child. See that they be not so to you, for you are as like her as one pea is to another."

"But was it not mother's duty to love my father, since she was his wife?" I ventured to ask.

"Surely, child! 'Tis the duty of all wives. The trouble was in her being a wife at all, since she forsook a higher vocation to become one. Nobody can deny that the vocation of a religious is far higher than that of a wife."

"But if there were no wives, there would by-and-by be no religious," said I; whereat dear Mother smiled and patted my cheek, telling me that my tongue ran too fast and far for a good novice, and that she must find means to tame it. However, I do not think she was angry.

Sister Frances says that everything I do is right because I do it, and that I am the favorite both with Mother Superior and Mother Gertrude. If I am—which I don't believe, because I think both the dear Mothers mean to be just to all—I am sure I shall never take any advantage of their kindness.

When I got a chance, I showed my treasures to Amice.

"You wont keep them, will you?" asked Amice.

"Keep them! Of course I shall!" I answered, rather indignantly, I am afraid. "What would you have me do with my dear mother's rosary and the baby's curl?"

"'A good religious will have nothing which she calls her own,'" said Amice, as if quoting something. "She will strive for perfection, and to acquire that she must be wholly detached from all human affections, so that mother or child, husband or brother, shall be no more to her than the rest of the world. Are we not expressly told in the lives of the Saints that St. Francis disregarded the remonstrances and the curses of his father, and that even the tears and prayers of his mother were nothing to him? Did not St. Clare, our blessed founder, fly from her father's house at midnight, and by the advice of St. Francis himself, conceal the step she was about to take from her father and mother, and did not St. Agnes herself shortly do the same, and absolutely refuse to return, though she was but fourteen years old?"

"But Amice, Master Ellenwood told me himself, that, 'Honor thy father and mother,' is one of the chief commandments," I objected. "And besides I am not yet a religious."

"But you mean to be—you have promised to be one," answered Amice. "I don't know about the commandments, but I do know that our order is specially dedicated to holy poverty, and you cannot embrace that, and call anything your own—not so much as your rosary or the clothes you wear. I think you should burn this hair, and offer the rosary on the shrine of our Lady, in the garden."

"I will ask Mother Gertrude about it," said I; and the good Mother entering at that moment, I laid the case before her. She smiled rather sadly, methought, and looked lovingly at the little curl of baby hair, as it lay on her hand.

"So you think it is not right for you to keep these things?" said she.

"Not I, but Amice," I answered. "She says it is not consistent with holy poverty."

"And dost think, child, it is very consistent with holy humility, or holy obedience either, for thee to be giving spiritual council or direction to thy sister?" asked Mother Gertrude, turning somewhat sharply to Amice, who colored, but said nothing.

"I don't think Amice was in fault, Mother," I ventured to say, for I thought she was hard upon Amice. "She only told me what she thought."

"Well, well, maybe not," answered the old nun, relenting as she ever does after the first sharp word; "I did not mean to chide, but I am put past my patience with meddling and tattling, and what not. As to the rosary, you had better ask Father Fabian, or Mother Superior. Come, children, you should be at your work, and not idling here. I wish, Rosamond, that Father Fabian had found some one else to copy his precious manuscripts. I want you to help about ordering the patterns for the new copes, and mending the altar linen. There is nobody in the house can equal you in a pattern or a darn, save Mother Mary Monica, and her eyes and hands are both too far gone, for such work."

"Cannot I help you, Mother?" said Amice, with an evident effort.

"You! No, child, thank you all the same, not till you learn the use of your fingers better than you have it now."

Amice colored, but answered not a word.

"But, dear Mother, I dare say the manuscript can wait," said I. "There is no hurry, I know, for Father Fabian told me I might take my time about it, and I can do it at one time as well as another, even by lamplight; when I cannot work, I can help about the copes, part of the day, or until they are finished."

"That's my good child," said she. "Well, come down to the sacristy in about half an hour, and we will get them all out, and consider them. We want to have everything in apple-pie order, you see." And the good Mother bustled away.

"So I must leave my writing and go to working, it seems." said I, rather pettishly, I fear, for I do love my translating, and I am not devoted to cut-work and darning, though, thanks to dear Mother, I rather excel in both these arts. "However, 'tis to please Mother Gertrude, and 'tis all in the day's work. But what is the matter, Amice?" I added, seeing tears in her eyes; "surely you need not think so much of a word from Mother Gertrude. You know 'tis her way?"

"I know it," answered Amice. "I ought to have knelt at her feet and thanked her for her reproof, instead of feeling hurt. I have lost a chance for exercising holy humility. I can go down to the sacristy and do it when you meet her there."

"I'll tell you a better way," said I. "Get a piece of linen and set yourself to work in earnest to practise the stitches, so that you can help her another time; for you know, dear, you really don't work very neatly, because you won't keep your mind on your work. You are always wool-gathering—maybe I should say meditating—about something else. Come now, that will be the best way. I am sure Mother will be willing to have me teach you, or to show you herself."

"Thank you, sister Rosamond; but really I don't perceive such a great difference between our work as you do!" said Amice, coldly. "It will be time to come to the sacristy when I am asked."

"Just as you please," said I, rather vexed. "I thought you wished a chance for holy humility, that's all."

And I came away without another word, and went down to the sacristy, where Mother Gertrude and the Sacristine had all the vestments spread out in great array. There was one old cambric cope done in cut-work so fine as to resemble lace, but so worn and decayed that it fairly broke with its own weight.

"What a pity!" said the Sacristine. "Do you think you could mend it, Rosamond? There is not such another—no, not at Glastonbury itself, Father Fabian says."

"I don't believe it can be mended!" said I, considering it. "You see the fabric is so old there is nothing to hold the darning thread. But if I had a piece of fine cambric, I think I can work another like it. At any rate, I can try; and if I don't succeed, there will be no great harm done."

The Mothers were both pleased, and Mother Superior coming in, the matter was laid before her.

"Can you accomplish it, daughter?" she asked. "This is a very curious piece of work."

"I can try!" said I. "If I fail, there will be no great loss."

"True, my child, but your translation?"

"Oh, Father Fabian will excuse me, or I can work at it a part of the time. Perhaps that will be the best way!"

So it was settled, and Mother Superior said she would send directly and procure the cambric and thread.

CHAPTER VI.

May 15th.        

I HAVE drawn my patterns and made a beginning, after practising the lace stitches on something else, and am really succeeding very well. I take two hours a day for that and two for my translation. I did not mean to have my work seen till I found out whether it were like to turn out well, but Mother Sacristine was so pleased, she must needs publish the matter. I can see plainly that some of the Sisters are not pleased at all; indeed Sister Catherine said plainly 'twas not fit such an honor should be laid on the youngest person in the house, and not even one of the professed.

I am sure I never thought of its being such a great honor—only that it pleases the dear Mothers, I would much rather work at my translation or make baby clothes for the women in the village. I can't help thinking too (though perhaps I ought not to write it), that our Lord Himself would be quite as well pleased to have my skill employed in clothing the naked little ones baptized in His name, as to have it used to add one more piece of finery to the twenty-five costly copes, and other vestments in proportion, in which our house takes so much pride. But these are matters too high for me to judge, and I know He will approve of my obeying and striving to please those whom He hath set in place of parents to me.

It has, somehow, leaked out—I can't guess how, unless by means of some eavesdropper—that I sent a book to my cousin, when my father was here; and Sister Catherine has taken me severely to task therefor. I told her that Richard was my cousin, and that I had Mother Superior's leave.

"Pretty discipline—pretty discipline!" she muttered. "Sending love tokens from a religious house. Well, well, we shall see. As for you, Mistress Rosamond, you are high in favor just now, and all you do is well, because, forsooth, you have a cunning hand with the needle, and can skill to read Latin; but have a care! Favorites are not long lived, and pride may have a fall!"

I made her no answer, and so she left me.

Eve of St. John the Baptist, June 23rd.        

We have been mighty busy all day preparing for the feast to-morrow. We are to have high mass, and the celebrant is none other than my Lord Bishop himself, who thus honors our poor family. He has been here to-day, and has had long conference with Mother Superior, Father Fabian and the other elders. I fancy the two first wear a shade of care, and even the Bishop does not look as easy and merry as when I have seen him before.

CHAPTER VII.

St. John Baptist's Day, June 24.        

TO my great surprise, I myself was summoned to the Bishop's presence last evening. He was sitting in a great chair in the parlor, and received me graciously and kindly.

"Be not alarmed, my daughter," said he, seeing that I trembled, for indeed I was frightened, not knowing what to think or expect. "I only wish to ask you a few questions. I dare say there is nothing wrong."

And then to my surprise, he began questioning me about my father's visit, and the motives which had led me to the convent. I told him all, not knowing any reasons for concealment. Then he asked me whether I had seen my cousin since I left home. Very much surprised, I answered, "No, my Lord, I have had no chance to see him. He hath been in London, with my Lord, his uncle, and I have not stirred outside these walls since I came hither."

"And you have held no communication with him by letter or otherwise?" asked the Bishop.

I told him how I had sent him a book of prayers by my father, with Mother Superior's approbation.

"And did he send nothing to you—no lock of hair or other love token?"

I was vexed enough, but I could not forbear a smile. "My Lord," said I, "my father did assuredly bring me a lock of hair, taken from the head of a very young gentleman, which I will show you." And I took from my pocket my little Latin Psalter and showed him the babe's little curl fastened to one of the blank leaves. My Lord looked at it and smiled also.

"A very young gentleman indeed, I should say," he remarked. "Surely, it is the hair of a young infant."

"Yes, my Lord, of my sister's first child, about six weeks old. She sent it me by my father, and I thought no harm in keeping it."

"And was there naught else?"

"Truly, my mother's rosary," I answered; and then seeing his manner so kind, I ventured to ask him if there was anything wrong in my keeping and using it. He told me "none at all, but that I should strive to disengage my heart from earthly affections, as became a good religious."

Then he questioned me about my vigil in the Chapel and my motives therefor, to all of which I returned him clear and plain answers, having naught to conceal. Finally he asked me "whether I thought I had a true vocation?"

"Do not be fluttered," said he, kindly. "Take time, and tell me what you think."

I told him I did not know how to answer, because I had never fairly considered the subject. I had been brought up to think of the convent as my home, and most of my life had been passed within its walls. I had promised my mother to become a nun, and I meant to keep my word, and to do my duty as well as I could; but I could not pretend to say that I felt or ever had felt any such strong drawing toward the cloister as some of the other Sisters professed, and as I had read of in the lives of the Saints.

"Well, well! That will perhaps come," said my Lord, kindly. "Meantime, daughter, I am pleased with your frankness, and the simplicity with which you have answered my questions. Father Fabian and the Superior both speak well of you, and I doubt not you will be a credit to this house and to your order; specially if you use your knowledge as you have begun. See, I am going to give you this reliquary as a remembrance, and to increase your devotion. It contains a small fragment of the true cross, and once belonged to a very holy Abbess, who understood the Latin tongue as well as yourself, or perhaps better. But, my child, do not you let your gifts puff you up or lead you to look down on others. Any one who uses knowledge in that way had far better be without it. Remember that you have nothing which you did not receive, and that any gifts you have belong not to yourself to serve or exalt yourself withal, but to your God and your order."

And with that, he gave me his blessing in the kindest manner, and dismissed me, well pleased with the interview. It is very odd that he should have asked me such questions, however. As if I would send love tokens to any one, let alone poor Dick, with whom I have played all my life.

As I came out from the parlor into the passage, and from thence to the cloister door, I saw Sister Catherine and Sister Mary Paula whispering together. They stopped talking when I came out, and looked eagerly towards me.

"So you have been confessing to the Bishop?" says Sister Mary Paula.

"Not exactly confessing!" said I. "My Lord did me the honor to send for me, and asked me some questions. He has been very kind, and has given me a precious relic."

And I showed them the reliquary. I may be mistaken, but it seemed to me that Sister Catherine looked positively disappointed.

"That's the way things go in this world!" said Sister Mary Paula. "I have been in this house twelve years, and nobody can say I ever missed a fast or a service, and yet nobody gives me a relic or takes any notice of me, or puts me into any office. Well, well, 'kissing goes by favor,' is an old saying, as true here as anywhere else!"

"You ought to be thankful, Sister, that you have such humiliations put upon you," answered Sister Catherine. "You know nothing is so precious as humility. Come, let us go to our duty, dear Sister, and be thankful that we dwell in the dust and are trampled on by the foot of pride. 'Tis a far safer and more blessed place, and we ought to rejoice to be despised."

With that, before I could hinder, she knelt down and kissed my feet, and walked away, looking, I am sure, anything but humble. I don't see either why one should rejoice in being despised, since 'tis a wicked thing to despise people.

I heard Sister Catherine summoned to the parlor, as were several other Sisters, and Mother Gertrude as well.

This morning his Lordship called the whole family together, and made them one of the very best discourses I ever heard in all my life. I wish I could hear such an one every day. I am sure I should be the better. He began by commending highly the order and neatness of the house, the garden, and specially the library and sacristy. Then he said he had discovered some things which gave him pain, and of which he must needs speak. Here I saw Sister Catherine and Sister Mary Paula exchange glances. He went on to remark that he had discovered a spirit of jealousy and detraction, of fault-finding and tattling, which ought to exist in no family, least of all in a religious house, and one specially vowed to holy poverty, as we were. Then warming up—

"One would think, my children, that you should rejoice in each other's gifts and achievements. Instead thereof I find murmurs and complaints one of another, as if one Sister were injured because another is chosen to execute some special office or piece of work to which she is judged specially fitted. Sisters should be more ready to hide each other's faults than to betray them; but here a perfectly harmless and even religious act is reported to me as a flagrant breach of discipline."

Here again I saw an exchange of glances, quite of another kind.

"Ah, my daughters (the Bishop went on to say, as near as I can remember), these things ought not to be. Believe me, it is not the coarse habit, nor the sandals, nor the veils—no, nor the seclusion, nor the enclosure, nor even the watchings, and fastings, and many prayers, which make a true religious. All these things are good and holy, when well used; but they may all exist in company with many things utterly hateful to God and our blessed Lady. Let me show you in what true charity consisteth."

Then he repeated a description of charity so noble, so full, that methinks all Christian perfection was contained therein—as how a man might give all his goods in alms, and perform miracles, and even become a martyr, and yet be nothing better than a bit of sounding brass. Then showing what made true charity—even kindness, and patience, and gentleness, and humbleness, and thinking no evil, but hoping and believing the best at all times.

['Twas the thirteenth chapter of St. Paul, his first Epistle to the Corinthians which he recited, but I, who had never seen a New Testament at that time, did not know it.]

Then with a deep shade of sadness on his kind old face, such as I never saw before, he besought us to dwell in unity and love, that our prayers be not hindered, but that we might strive together for our house, our order, and the whole Church. He said we had fallen on evil times, and there was no telling what might happen; and he advised a special devotion to our Lady and our blessed founder, for the averting of judgments which even now threatened us; and so at last dismissed us with his blessing. I am sure I shall remember the discourse as long as I live, and I hope I shall be the better for it. I know very well I am altogether too prone to judge and to impute evil, or at the least foolish motives to good actions, and specially to judge hardly of those who in any way offend my taste.

[I know now, what I did not then, that our house was threatened with total destruction. Not long before Cardinal Wolsey had founded his college at Oxford, and he had obtained a bull from the Pope for suppressing some thirty of the small religious houses and to endow his said college with their revenues; and now there was talk of another suppression. We have in our West country a pithy proverb about showing the cat the way to the cream, which his Eminence might have remembered, if he ever chanced to hear it.]

After mass and sermon, it being a great feast day, we had a better dinner than ordinary, with abundance of sweetmeats and cakes, and recreation all the afternoon till vespers, for which I was very glad. I was cheered by the Bishop's discourse, and yet humbled by it, and I wanted time to think it over: so I slipped away from the rest, and with a garment I was making for Mary Dean's babe, betook myself to the garden chapel, where, having first said my prayers before the shrine, I sat down on a low and roughly hewn stone bench outside the door, and began to think and work at the same time.

I know not how it is, but I can always meditate to better purpose when I have something else to do. In our set hours of meditation I am always possessed to think of any and everything but the subject given us by Mother Superior. It is just then that all my working patterns come into my head. Well, I was sitting sewing a long seam, now working diligently, now stopping to listen to the birds and watch them feeding their young ones (now fully fledged and clamorously following their patient parent from tree to tree), when Amice came and sat down beside me.

"Methinks you spend your holiday soberly," said she, after a little silence, "working away in recreation time."

"I have not done work enough to spoil my recreation," I answered, gayly, "but you know my way of always liking something in my hands. I did not see that any one wanted me, so I came to this solitary place to think about the Bishop's sermon. 'Twas a noble discourse, was it not?"

"Yes, I suppose so," said Amice, and she sighed deeply.

"I thought you would have liked it," I said.

"It just added to my troubles, like everything else. Rosamond, I wish I had never been born, or else that I had been born a milkmaid."

"I don't fancy life is easier to milkmaids than to any one else," I answered. "I think it is as easy here as anywhere, don't you?"

"No!" said she, with a kind of vehemence. "I think it is hard, intolerable, all but impossible. It is all a mass of contradictions from first to last."

"Hush, hush!" I said, alarmed. "Say what you like to me, but don't speak so loud. Remember what we heard this morning about eavesdropping. I do wish you would tell me what troubles you so, dear. Perhaps it would not seem so bad, if you talked it over."

She laid her head on my lap and cried as if her heart would break.

"O Rosamond, I shall never be a Saint—never!" said she, sobbing. "The more I try the worse I am."

"What now?" said I.

"You know how I have fasted and prayed, lately," she continued. "I have denied myself everything—even converse with you, Rosamond. I have striven to put down all affection for one more than another, and have associated with those I liked the least—"

"I wondered what made you so intimate with Sister Frances, and Sister Mary Paula, and so cold to me," I said. "I was afraid I had offended you."

"I know you were, and I made up my mind to bear the unjust suspicion and not justify myself in your eyes, as another means of humiliation. I have eaten only the coarsest food, and worn sackcloth next my skin, and lain all night upon the floor—and it is all—of no use—I only feel—just as cross as I can be!" Here she cried afresh, and I soothed her as well as I could. "I read in the life of St Francis how the Saint requested the bird to stop singing, and tamed the wolf," she continued, presently, "and I thought I would try to tame Sultan our peacock; but when I kindly requested him to leave his corn for the hens, he wouldn't; and when (first asking the intercession of St. Francis) I tried to induce him to give it up to me—he—he pecked me," sobbed Amice, with another burst of grief, and she showed me her hand, all raw and sort in the palm where the ugly creature had wounded her.

"Amice," said I, when she was a little calmer, "why don't you tell all these things to Father Fabian?"

"I did, last night," said she; "and he told me I was making myself ill to no purpose, and that the exercises appointed were enough for me. But St. Clare and the other Saints used a great many more austerities than these."

"I suppose their spiritual superiors allowed them," I said.

"Then why can't mine allow me? Unless I can be a Saint I don't care to be a religious at all. I wish I could go somewhere else—to some of the strict houses which Sister Catherine and Mother Mary Monica tell us of—and then I might have a chance, perhaps."

"And would you leave Mother Gertrude—the only relation you have in the world?" I asked her.

"A religious has naught to do with family affection, Rosamond. Ought I not to disregard every earthly tie, if thereby I can advance toward holiness?"

The bell sounded for vespers just then, so we could talk no more; but I am very much puzzled. I am sure my father and my own relations must always be more to me than any one else can be. It does not seem to me either as if Amice were going to work in the right way to be a Saint. I think a real Saint would be the last person to know that he was one.

When we met at supper, Sister Catherine remained on her knees in a corner all the time we were eating, and when we had finished, she kissed the feet of each of us as we went out, and begged our pardon for her many offences.

"See how humble dear Sister Catherine is," said Sister Mary Paula. "She begged to be allowed to perform this public penance because she said she had sinned against charity."

I suppose it was very good of her, but I can't help thinking it would have been more really humble if she had repented and apologized in private. It seems to me that such a show of humility might make one proud of being humble. But I dare say she is right and I am wrong.

CHAPTER VIII.

I HAVE heard some great news to-day, which is yet unknown to most of the household, though they must guess, of course, that something is going to happen, from seeing the preparations that are making. 'Twas from no good will of mine that I knew it either, for I hate secrets.

After breakfast, Mother Gertrude requested Amice and myself to help her put in order some tapestry. We followed her to the east end of the house, where are certain large apartments which have never been opened in my time. Mother Gertrude unlocked the door which separates them from the rest of the house and threw it open. The first room we entered was quite dark, save for certain rays which streamed through small cracks and crannies in the shutters, and showed us long lines of dust, while a moldy, close smell issued from the open door.

"Phew!" exclaimed Mother Gertrude. "Amice, child, step in and open the shutters."

Amice shrank back a little.

"Let me do it," said I; and without waiting to be told, as I suppose I should, I went in, and after a little fumbling succeeded in finding and drawing the bolt, and opening not only the shutters, but the casement, letting in the sweet light and air.

"Suppose we open all the casements and give the place a thorough airing," said I.

"Yes, do, my child," answered Mother Gertrude. "Amice, can't you help her, and not leave her to break all her finger nails." For all the time, Amice had stood still at the door.

"I waited to be told what to do," answered Amice, coloring as red as fire, and then coming forward without another word, she began to help me open the rooms. There were three, of good size and lofty, besides a closet or oratory with an altar and crucifix. The furniture had been good, though somewhat scanty, but it was battered and moth-eaten, and the floors were thick with dust, while something—the wind, I suppose—had swept into curious waves and traces, as though somebody had been pacing back and forth with a long gown on. I remarked on this appearance to Amice.

"Aye," said Mother Gertrude, overhearing me—and looking sadly about her, "If a ghost ever walked—Many a weary hour she paced these floors, poor thing, softly singing to herself, or repeating Psalms."

"Who, dear mother?" I ventured to ask.

"The one who last lived here, child. Never mind, now. I trust her soul hath gotten grace for all, and that she is resting with the Saints in Paradise. But how we are ever going to make these rooms fit for the Queen and her family, is more than I can guess."

"The queen!" I repeated.

"Aye, child. There, I have let the cat out of the bag, but never mind. You would have heard it before long, at any rate. Yes, children, her Grace being in these parts, and having somehow heard of the sanctity of our Lady's shrine in the garden, and of our many holy relics, has chosen our poor house in which to make a retreat, and she is coming next week to remain a month with us."

"'Tis a great honor for us," I said.

"Why, yes, in one way it is, and yet I could have wished her Grace had chosen some other house. I don't fancy an inroad of giddy girls from the Court, I must say."

"The Queen herself is very grave and religious, I have heard say," I remarked. "Maybe her attendants will not be so giddy, after all."

"Well, well, we will hope for the best. Do you and Amice set all these chairs out into the garden to begin with, and give them a good beating and dusting, and I will take order for the sweeping and washing of the floors, and that being in hand, we will overlook the tapestry and see what can be done to mend it."

Mother Gertrude was now in her element, and so I confess was I, for I do love a housewifely bustle. We carried all the chairs and stools down into the garden, and cutting light willow switches, we began to beat the cushions, raising clouds of dust, and getting ourselves into quite a frolic over it. In the midst of our labors and laughing, came along Sister Catherine and Sister Paula, inseparable, as usual. I wonder, by the way, how Sister Catherine reconciles her intimacy with the rule which forbids particular friendships among the religious.

"Dear me!" said Sister Catherine, in a tone of surprise—affected surprise, I may say—"Is it possible that this is our learned Rosamond, acting the part of a housemaid?"

"Even as you see, Sister!" I answered, merrily, and sending at the same time a cloud of dust in her direction (I fear I did it on purpose), which made her sneeze and cough heartily.

"Do be careful, child," said she, pettishly. "You cover me with dust, but of course one can't expect learned ladies to be very skilful in housewifery. I am glad your superiors at last see the need of humbling your proud spirits by setting you at a menial office."

"But, methinks, a mortified and recollected demeanor would be more suitable than all this laughter!" added Sister Mary Paula. "One would think you were making holiday, instead of doing penance."

I would not trust my tongue to answer, but raised such a cloud of dust that they were glad to beat a retreat.

"Rosamond," said Amice, after they were gone, "do you really suppose this work was given us as a penance and humiliation?"

"No," I answered. "I suppose it was given us because we are the youngest in the house and have little to do, and because Mother Gertrude likes to have us about her. Besides, where is the mortification?"

"But it is menial work, you must allow that," she insisted.

"It is work that must needs be done, and what matters whether it be menial or not? Come, let us set aside these chairs and bring down the rest."

Amice complied, but there was no more sport for her. She was plunged at once into discomfort, and began looking at herself, as usual.

"I did not think I needed any such humiliation, but no doubt Mother knows best," said she, presently. "I don't think I put myself forward very much."

"Of course you don't, and I have no notion that Mother had any such matter in her head," said I. "Don't give it another thought. See how oddly the velvet of this chair is spotted, as with drops of water."

"But I know I shall never be a Saint," continued Amice, just glancing at the chair, but pursuing her own thoughts, as usual. "Do you know, Rosamond, I was really afraid to enter that room?"

"So I thought, and that was what made me offer. But Amice, I do think you need not have answered Mother Gertrude so."

"I know it," she said, in a kind of despairing tone. "O yes! I do need to have my pride mortified. But I shall never be a Saint, after all."

"I'll tell you what, child," said Mother Gertrude, who had come upon us unawares, in the noise we were making. "You are a deal more likely to make a Saint if you stop thinking about yourself and turning yourself inside out all the time. Saints, daughter, cannot be made, to my thinking. You can make artificial flowers to look very pretty at a distance, but if you want a real live plant, with sap, and leaves, and flowers, and fruit, you must needs give it time to grow."

Methinks a very wise saying of the dear old Mother's, and one I shall lay up.

We finished dusting the old chairs, and then began to wonder how we should make them presentable, for, though the frames were good, the covers were both ragged and faded, and there was no time to get them covered anew. Presently Amice made a suggestion.

"You know the brown Hollands, of which we have great store in the wardrobe. Why not make covers of that, binding them with some bright colors? If they were nicely laundried, as Sister Bridget knows how to do them, I think they would at least be neat and pleasant."

"Upon my word, child, 'tis a good thought, and well devised!" said Mother Gertrude, much pleased, as she always is whenever we show any cleverness. "We will try it on the withdrawing room, at any rate: and 'twas a good thing to remember Sister Bridget, too, poor thing, for she loves to be of service, though her wits are small. I tell you, children, talking of saints, that poor weakly dull thing is nearer to real saintship than some who are far wiser, and think themselves far holier, to boot. Rosamond, do you bring down a piece of the Hollands, and we will see how it looks."

In the wardrobe, chancing to look out at the window, I saw Amice reading something, which presently she put into her bosom. Some old book of devotion, I dare say. She will never throw away a bit of written or printed paper, if she can help it.

CHAPTER IX.

July 14.        

WE have finished all our work, though we had to call in more help. Mother Gertrude chose Sister Bonaventure and Sister Margaret, besides Sister Bridget, to do the washing and ironing. They are not so bright as some, but they are good with the needle; and as Mother says, can mind what they are told without an argument about it. The apartments are now all arranged. The antichamber is done in green serge, the withdrawing room in red, and the bed-chamber all in linen, as Amice suggested. Mother Superior inspected the work this afternoon, and praised us for our diligence and skill.

"I fear her Grace will think them very plain and bare!" said Mother Gertrude.

"Her Grace, Sister, does not come hither seeking for ease and luxury!" answered Mother Superior. "Moreover, being a kind and gracious lady, she will doubtless be satisfied with the best we have to offer. You have done well, dear Sisters and children, and I thank you for your pains."

"And how are her Grace's attendants to be accommodated?" asked Mother Gertrude.

"She will bring no great train—only three attendants—Mistress Patience, her bower-woman, Master Griffith, her steward, who will live with Father Fabian, and Mistress Anne Bullen, one of her ladies. You will have the two small rooms at this end of the gallery prepared for the ladies, not changing the furniture, but laying clean linen and mats. A little hard lodging will not harm them for a while."

"I trow not!" answered Mother Gertrude. "I am glad we are to have no train of court dames to turn our giddy pates, whereof we have enow;" she added, putting her hands on the shoulders of us girls, as we stood near her, as if she had meant to include us among the giddy pates. I expected to see Amice color, as usual, but she only smiled and kissed the dear wrinkled hand. Somehow she has been much more pleasant the last few days.

CHAPTER X.

St. Mary Magdalene, July 21.        

OUR great guests have come, and are safely settled, and her Grace is pleased to approve of her rooms, specially the one furnished with linen. She asked whose was the invention, and being told by Mother Superior that it was one of the pupils (for that is the name we young ones go by), she sent her her thanks and a pretty Psalter, as a token of approbation. I never was more delighted, not only for the sake of Amice, who is far oftener blamed than commended, but because dear Mother Gertrude was so pleased. One never can tell how Amice will take anything, she has so many notions; but she came herself and showed the book to me, saying how glad she was to possess a whole Psalter of her own.

"Was it not kind of her Grace?" she said.

"Indeed it was!" I answered. "I think it is always kind in people to show pleasure when one tries to please them."

"I believe you are right!" she said, considering. "The pot of ointment St. Mary Magdalene gave our Lord could be no such great gift to Him, and yet He showed Himself pleased with that, as no doubt He would if some little child had given Him a handful of shells, or wild flowers."

Amice has seemed much pleasanter and happier these last days.

The Queen does indeed look like a most gracious lady. I should say she must have been very well-favored in her youth, but she is faded and worn, and looks I can't but think as if she had some settled sorrow, which was wearing away her health and life. Mistress Patience, her bower-woman, is a dignified, somewhat austere looking lady, and yet I like her. She seems like one who might be very kind and faithful if one were in any trouble. Mistress Anne Bullen is of another sort. At the first glance I fell in love with her beauty and grace, but somehow, as I see her more, I do not like her as well. I can hardly tell why, only she is never quiet a minute, and seems to act as if she wished to draw all eyes to herself. She has, too, a certain mocking expression, even in church—indeed I think more there than anywhere—which does not please me. But this is hard judgment on one whom I have seen but two or three times.

Although her Grace must needs have been very weary with her journey, she was at early mass this morning, and partook of the sacrament with great devotion, as did Mistress Patience and Master Griffith. Mistress Bullen did not, I suppose, from lack of preparation.

Of course this visit has set all our little community in a ferment. That is only natural. We have so few events to mark our lives, that small matters become great. Beside this can hardly be called a small matter.

"Ah!" said Sister Anne to Sister Bridget, "You little thought, when you were so busy with your chairs, who was to sit on them!"

"O yes, I did!" answered Sister Bridget, composedly, as usual: "Mother Gertrude told me."

"Really! And you kept the news to yourself all that time! How wonderful!"

"I don't see anything wonderful!" said Sister Bridget, who understands everything quite literally: "Mother Gertrude told me not to tell, and so, of course, I could not, if I had wished it."

"You are a good soul, and I wont tease you," said Sister Anne, who has far more of generosity with her than her Sister. "But say now, Sister Bridget, is it not a wonderful thing that a real Queen should come and lodge under our roof?"

"No, I don't know that it is," answered Sister Bridget, considering a little, as usual.

"You know, Sister Anne, that our Lord dwells here all the time—Father Fabian says so—and He is much greater than any Queen."

I believe Sister Bridget will be one of the saints that grow, as Mother Gertrude says.

July 24th.        

Her Grace has fallen into a settled way of life, and methinks seems already happier than when she came. She keeps all the hours, and also spends much time in prayer at the shrine of our Lady, in the garden. It was a favorite place of my own, but of course I do not intrude on her. I went this morning before I thought she would be up, meaning to say prayers for my father, from whom I have not heard, when, on entering the little chapel, I found her Grace before me. I would have retired noiselessly, but her Grace looked round, and seeing me, she beckoned me to come and kneel beside her.

"The place is small," said she, "but two or three devout hearts can find room in it, and we shall not hinder each other's prayers."

So we said our prayers together in silence, but her Grace sighed many times—oh, so deeply, as if from such a burdened heart, that I was moved to pray for her. I am sure, "Happy as a Queen" is not a true saying, in her case.

When her Grace arose, I would have retired in silence, but she detained me, and placing herself on my favorite seat, she called me to sit down beside her. I did so without demur, since she bade me.

"You are Rosamond, daughter of the good knight, Sir Stephen Corbet, are you not?" asked her Grace.

"Yes, madam," I answered. Oh, how I did long to ask if she had seen my father, but of course I did not speak till spoken to.

"And, do you know, little Rosamond, that you are partly the cause of my coming here?" Then as I hesitated what to say, she continued: "I had heard before of this shrine of our Lady's, which had been hallowed by the prayers of St. Ethelburga long ago, and being one day in conversation with your kinsman, Lord Stanton, I questioned him about it. He, seeing my interest, offered to bring me his cousin, Sir Stephen Corbet, who, he said, had a daughter in the house, and could tell me more than himself. I remembered the good knight, and was glad to see him again; and he coming to me, we held long discourse together. He told me the house was of the best repute, both for sanctity of manners and good works, though 'twas not of the strictest order—that the Superior was a lady of good family and breeding, that the situation was pleasant, and the air sweet and wholesome. On farther question, he also said that you were here, and seemed very happy; and also that watching before the shrine of our Lady in the garden, you had received from her a most comfortable assurance concerning your mother, who had died suddenly without the sacraments. This determined me to seek this house as a place to hold a religious retreat, thinking that perhaps the same grace might, unworthy as I am, be vouchsafed to me, who am sorely in need."

She again sighed heavily, and as she looked abroad in silence for some minutes, I am sure I saw tears in her lovely eyes. I sat quite still, not knowing what better to do.

"Will you tell me the history of this matter, my child?" said she presently, coming back, as it were, from the place where her thoughts had gone. "Believe me, it is no idle curiosity which prompts the request."

Now my night in the chapel has ever seemed to me so sacred that I have never mentioned it save to my father and Amice, to whom I tell everything, and to Father Fabian my confessor; but seeing the Queen's desire. I could not refuse: so I told her all as truly as if I had been at confession. She listened eagerly, but looked, I thought, disappointed when I had done.

"And was that all?" she said. "Was there no sign from the Holy Image—no light nor voice?"

"I told her there was none—it was only that some influence seemed sweetly to bring to my mind, and open to my apprehension the words I had so often read before."

"And was that all?" said the Queen, once more; and again she sighed heavily. I knew it was not my place to speak, far less to instruct her, but something seemed to bid me not hold my peace.

"If I dared be so bold, Madam," I began, with fear and trembling.

"Well!" said her Grace, smiling sweetly: "If you dare be so bold maiden, what then?"

"Then, Madam," I answered, "I would rather have things as they are. If I had seen a vision—if our Lady's image had bowed to me, or I had seen a great light, or heard an angel speaking, I might afterward have come to think I had dreamed it. But these blessed words are not liable to any such doubt. They are in the Holy Psalms, a part of God's own word—so I can read them when I please and feel that they must be true."

"There is much in what you say!" answered her Grace. "Rosamond, you are a good child. If your mother had not given you to this house, I should be tempted to beg you of your father, and keep you about me. But we must not commit sacrilege, must we, my maiden? However, I shall make bold to ask the Superior to give me much of your company."

So saying, her Grace kissed my forehead and walked away, leaving me overwhelmed with her kindness. This afternoon Mother Superior called Amice and myself, and told us that her Grace had made choice of us to attend her on alternate days, and also to walk abroad with her when she chose to visit any of the poor folks. Of course we made no objection.

"'Tis a great honor, doubtless!" said Amice, when we left the room. "But I could wish her Grace had chosen some one else. However, she has a right to command the services of all in the house, and after all, 'tis but a matter of obedience."

"Just so!" I answered, delighted at her taking it so calmly. "And if we can give any comfort or pleasure to her Grace, I am sure we should be glad to do it."

"But I shall not know how to address her," said Amice.

"There is dear old Mother Mary Monica sitting in the sun," said I; "let us go and ask her counsel. She was once maid of honor to the late Queen, you know."

So we went and sat down at the old nun's feet and laid our matters before her, asking her to advise us how we should demean ourselves before the Queen.

"Well, well," she said: "so her Grace has chosen you out of all the family to wait on her. I wish the honor may not bring you ill will. But you deserve it, for you are good maidens, good maids!" And she stroked our heads with her trembling, withered hands. "You are kind to the old and the simple, and that is sure to bring a blessing. Only be not set up in your own conceits, for pride is a sin—one of the seven deadly sins—and court favor is vainer than thistle-down and more changeable than the wind."

"So I suppose," said I; "but, dear Mother, you know the ways of court; will you not tell us how we should behave?"

"Aye, surely, child. Was I not maid of honor to the good Queen Elizabeth? Good indeed she was, but she was not happy, for all. Many a ploughman's or fisher's dam is better off than was that daughter and wife of kings. As to behaving—just behave like ladies. Take no liberties, even though your mistress should seem to invite them. Speak when you are spoken to, modestly and openly, and be as silent as the grave as to any and every word you may hear in the presence, be it ever so light. Observe these rules, and you will do well enough. There are no men about her Grace, or saucy pages to make mischief, and if there were you are no silly giglets to be led into scrapes. Nay, you will do well enough, no fear."

"Will you not give us your prayers, dear Mother?" said Amice.

"Aye, that I will, daughter; and do you give yours to your mistress, for she has need of them. There is heart trouble in her face, poor lady. And daughters, another thing. Be you courteous and kind to all, and learn all you can, but do not you go making a friend and intimate of this fine court young lady. Take my word for it, you will gain nothing but trouble thereby. 'Tis a fair creature too, and gracious, but giddy, and too fond of admiration. Mind, I don't say that there is any real harm in her. But she has grown up in the French court, which was no good school in my day, and I doubt has not improved since; and she has had no motherly training, poor thing. She seems to me like one who would make eyes at the blessed St. Anthony himself, and failing the saint, she would flirt with his very pig rather than lack her game."

"Did St. Anthony have a pig?" I asked.

"Surely, child. Have you never read his life? When I was a young lady in London—I wot not if the usage is kept up—devout persons used often to buy lame or sickly swine of the drovers, and putting the saint's mark on them, turn them loose in the street. Every one fed them, and they soon learned to know their benefactors. I have seen mine honored uncle—for my mother had a brother who was a merchant and Lord Mayor—I have seen my good uncle followed by two or three lusty porkers, grunting and squealing for the crusts which the good man dispensed from his pocket. The Franciscans have ever been kind to animals; and St. Francis loved the birds, especially. He would never have torn in pieces the sparrow that came into church, as St. Dominic did."

"I wonder whether St. Dominic ever read that verse in the Psalter, about the sparrow finding a nest wherein to lay her young?" remarked Amice.

"Eh, dear, I don't know—I suppose so. He was a stern man, was St. Dominic."

"Mother," said Amice, after a little silence, "did you know the lady who used to live in the Queen's apartment?"

"Did I know her? Aye, indeed, child! Did I not have the principal care of her, under the Mother Superior that was then? But that was long ago. Mother Gertrude was a young woman then, and Mother Superior that now is, was just professed. It was in the weary times of the civil wars, in Henry Sixth's day, that the poor lady came here, and she lived in those rooms twenty years—twenty years, children—and never saw a face save Mother Superior's and mine, and latterly Mother Gertrude's, when she began to divide the charge with me."

"What, not at church?" said I.

"She never went into the church," answered Mother Mary Monica. "There is a sliding panel in the oratory—I know not whether you found it—behind which is a very close grating, too close to be seen through, looking upon the altar. Here she might hear mass, if she would, but she never went into the church."

"But surely she might have looked into the garden, and seen the Sisters at their recreation."

"No, child. The windows, you may have observed, are very tall, and the lower parts were boarded up higher than she could reach. When she was at last laid on her dying bed, the boards were taken down, at her most earnest prayer, that she might once more behold the green trees. Ah, well do I remember, children," said the old Mother, wiping the tears from her eyes. "I was alone with her after that, and she said to me, clasping her hands—oh such thin hands! You could see the light through the very palms of them, and she had wound her finger with threads that she might not lose her wedding-ring."

"And she said—" repeated Amice.

"And she said, clasping her poor hands, 'Oh dear sister, for our dear Lord's sake, put me in my chair by the window, and let me look on the face of the fair world once more.' Well I knew she could not live long, at the best, so I even humored her, and lifted her to the great chair by the window."

"The sun was setting in great glory, and all the hills were lighted with a purple glow. She gazed eagerly abroad, and the very sunlight seemed reflected from her face."

"'A fair world—wondrous fair,' she murmured, 'but the next will be far fairer. "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor heart of man conceived, what He hath prepared for them that love Him." There will be greener pastures and stiller waters—even the water of life, clear as crystal—"and the Lamb in the midst of the throne shall lead them, and God shall wipe all tears from their eyes."'"

"Children, her face was like the face of an angel: but directly there came a change, and I had hardly laid her back on the bed, where she breathed her last."

"Without the sacraments?" said I.

"Even so. You see we did not think her so near her end. But I trust her soul hath gotten grace. They buried her in the corner of the cemetery farthest from the church. There is nothing to mark the grave save the blue violets and lilies of the valley I planted, and which have flourished marvellously."

"But what was her offence, dear Mother?" I asked. "Why was she kept so long and so closely?"

"Nay, that I know not precisely, though I may have a shrewd guess. She was akin to the Vernons, I know, and they fitted her rooms, and sometimes sent her linen and the like, though they never came anigh her. For my part I always thought she was infected with Lollardie, and being of such exalted rank, she escaped burning only to waste her young life in a prison, for she was not forty when she died. But, children, where have you led me?" said the old nun, with a startled look. "I have said, I fear, more than I ought."

"Do not be disturbed, dear Mother," said I, kissing her hand; "be sure neither Amice nor I shall ever repeat a word of what we have heard."

"No, indeed!" added Amice, and then, to divert her mind, I said, "So you think we had better not make a friend of Mistress Bullen, Mother?"

"Nay, child, I say naught against her, but what should you do with such worldly friendships? No, no; I say no harm of her; the saints forbid! But I like not her light-minded ways; and courts, children—courts are slippery places. But, as I said, do you be discreet and silent; speak only when spoken to, take no liberties, and above all never forget your duty to Heaven and this house, and you will do well, never fear."

[I did not write this tale in my great book, but on leaves which I hid away in the great folio of "Dun's Scotus," and this is the case with much that comes after. In this I did somewhat fail in my duty, perhaps, for in a religious house one's very most secret thoughts are not one's own. Not a letter from one's dearest friend, but is read by the superiors—nay one is not supposed to have one friend more than another. Our dear Mother Superior was not so strict as some, but Sister Catherine pried everywhere, even into the library, where she had no business, for it was my charge, as the storerooms were hers. I shall always think it was by her means, somehow, that the story of my sending the prayer-book to Dick reached the Bishop's ears. Marry, if it was, she gained not much thereby, to my thinking. But if I hid away the leaves of my journal, 'twas my only concealment from that honored lady, who then, and long after, stood in the place of a mother to me, poor orphan maid.]

CHAPTER XI.

August 1.        

A MOST disagreeable thing has chanced to me, but I hope no harm will come of it. I have done what seemed me best, and I suppose I might as well dismiss the matter from my mind, if I only could. I can't guess how Dick could do such a thing. He must have known, if he had but thought a little, into what an embarrassment it would bring me.

I have now been in attendance on her Grace two or three days, and have begun to feel a little more at ease, for at first I felt stifled, as it were. I can't think it pleasant to be with those who seem to look upon one as being of another flesh and blood than themselves, if they are ever so gracious. The Queen is very kind, no doubt (I don't believe she could be otherwise), but it does seem to me more like the kindness one would bestow on a pet dog or cat, than the good will, not to say affection—one woman should give to another. I dare say all great folks are so, especially Kings and Queens. They are taught to think themselves of another race. After all, it is mine own pride, I suppose, which makes me uncomfortable.

Mrs. Anne Bullen has been kind to me, though in a way which I like worse than the other. I see clearly that there is no love lost between herself and the bower-woman, Mistress Patience, and it seems as if she wished to enlist me as a partisan on her side, casting mocking glances at me, behind her mistress's back, whenever Mrs. Patience makes any of the little set moral speeches to which she is given, and specially when she utters any devout sentiment. Now, my honored mother early taught me that these significant and mocking looks were among the worst of bad manners; and moreover I could in this case see nothing to laugh at, so I have been careful to give no response or encouragement to them.

This morning I had gone early to the chapel in the garden, as usual, when entering quietly, I was surprised to see Mistress Anne, not at her prayers, but peeping and prying about the altar and the image of our Lady. She started a little, I thought, as I came in, and then said, easily enough:

"So this is the sacred image which has stood since the time of St. Ethelburga, and the fame of which has drawn her grace to this out-of-the-way corner. What a hideous old idol it is!"

This did not seem to me the way to speak in a church, so I held my tongue; whereat she said, in a light, mocking way, but with perfect good humor, "Oh, you are one of the devout, Mistress Rosamond. I cry your pardon! How shall I atone for my offence? I wonder whether news from a certain gallant squire would do it?"

"I don't understand you, Mistress Bullen," I answered, I dare say stiffly enough, though there was that in her manner which made my cheeks flame.

"O no, I see you don't," she answered. "Methinks your cheeks tell another story. Come, be honest now, and tell me what would you give for news from this same cousin Richard, whom a few weeks at court has transformed from a West country clown, into as handsome and saucy a squire as may be found in all the court. Suppose this same squire, knowing me to be bound hitherward, had entrusted me with a packet for his dear cousin Rosamond. What then?"

"Then my cousin Richard would have done a very unwise and inconsiderate thing, and one of which I should not have suspected him," said I, trying to answer quietly, though my heart beat and my cheeks glowed. "He knows my position here, and that such a step must needs compromise me with my superiors."

"But your superiors need not know everything, simple maiden," she answered, in her light fashion, and then dropping a packet in my lap, she fled away, and I presently heard her singing some light French love song in the garden.

The packet was not a large one, and it was directed in Richard's hand-writing. I own I was tempted to open it on the spot, and I dare say I should have done so, but just then, Sister Catherine entered. She has greatly affected this shrine since the Queen came hither, though I never saw her near it before. Her eyes fell on the packet before I had time to put it up, as I certainly should have done.

"So!" she exclaimed, in a tone of triumph! "So, fair Rosamond, this is the secret of your devotion to St. Ethelburga's shrine, is it? So this is our young saint, who watches, and prays, and translates devout books." Then changing her tone—"Ah, Rosamond, Rosamond, beware! You are on the high road to destruction. How dare you profane this holy place with love tokens, aye, and love meetings, for aught I know? Is it not enough to draw down the vengeance of heaven not only on yourself, but on all this house and family?"

By this time, I was quite cool and collected. "You are making a leap in the dark, as usual, Sister Catherine," I said. "This packet has but just been put into my hands, and if you will go with me, yourself shall see me put it unopened into those of Mother Superior. And since we are here together, let us remember the Bishop's sermon, and join our prayers for that charity of which he spoke, which thinketh no evil, but hopeth all things."

She looked taken aback for a moment, and then—"Ah, sister, sister! But I am thankful if my chance incoming saved you from profaning this holy place, even once. I do not doubt you will now give that package to Mother Superior, unopened. But how many have already been received and read here?"

At this I lost patience. "Methinks, sister, your head must be very full of love tokens, and such matters, since you must needs be talking of them in the very chapel itself," I said. "Perhaps, if you have exhausted the subject, you will give me leave to say my prayers;" and with that I withdrew myself to the other side, and knelt down to my devotions, which I fear were too full of distractions to be very acceptable. I was angry at Richard for bringing me into such a scrape, and at Mistress Bullen for helping him; I was angry at Sister Catherine for her unkind construction, and at myself, for retorting on her. Beside I forsaw real and serious annoyance, growing out of Richard's imprudence.

When I had finished, I rose and said to Sister Catherine, "Now, if you will go with me, you shall be satisfied."

"If I go with you, it will be from no idle curiosity, but to save you from committing another sin," said she, severely.

I made her no answer, and we went together, and in silence, to Mother Superior's room, where we found her looking over some papers.

"So!" said she, sharply. "Sister Catherine, I was about sending for you. Rosamond, what brings you hither?"

"A sad occasion, dear Mother," answered Sister Catherine, before I had time to speak. "I bring you a sinner, but let us hope a repentant one, and I entreat you, dearest Mother, to consider her youth and the temptations under which she hath lately been placed, and not judge her hardly. Rosamond hath received—from what source I know not certainly, though I have a shrewd guess—a private packet. Yes, even in the holy shrine of St. Ethelburga, where sacrilege hath been so fearfully avenged before this time, she hath received a love token—how many more I know not. Alas! The post of a favorite is ever a dangerous one, and pride goeth before a fall!"

"What is all this, Rosamond?" asked Mother Superior, turning to me.

For all answer I told her as shortly and plainly as I could, what had chanced, suppressing only the name of Mistress Anne, as not fit to be revealed before Sister Catherine.

"But who was the go-between and messenger?" asked Sister Catherine. "Methinks our young Sister's confession is incomplete. Alas, that I should live to see this holy house fall into such disorder. But I ever said what would come of these irregularities. We shall see no good till we are reformed from top to bottom."

"Sister Catherine, with your leave, I will judge of this matter myself," said Mother Superior, sharply; "and, meantime, I must needs say, you forget yourself strangely when you take the words out of my mouth and use such language to me, who am the head of this house. Do you talk to me of disorders, and that when your own charge is so misordered and neglected, as I have found it only this morning? Betake yourself to the wardrobe and store-room, and leave them not while a grain of dust or a cobweb remains. Let every piece of cloth and linen, yea, every napkin and kerchief, and skein of thread be taken down and folded anew, and the shelves wiped clean of dust and mold, and let all presses and drawers be filled with fresh rose leaves, lavender and southernwood. Leave not your work either for meal-time or recreation till it is finished; and when I next visit the wardrobe let me find the neatness and order befitting a religious house. Public penance may be well, but secret humility and faithfulness are far better. And do you not breathe a word of this matter to any living soul, if you would avoid such discipline as will bring you neither comfort nor honor. I have long borne with your carelessness in your own charge, and your ceaseless meddling and impertinence, out of pity for your weakness; but faithfulness to mine own duty will let me endure it no longer. Go, and presume not to show your face either at table or recreation until your work is finished. As you cannot well fold the clothes alone, I will send Sister Bridget to help you; but mind, let not a word be spoken between you, save what your work absolutely demands."

Angry as I was at poor Sister Catherine, I did feel sorry for her, though I knew the reproof was just. The wardrobe and store-room have been fearfully misordered of late, so that the moths have got into everything. Sister Catherine was so taken aback that she was retiring at once, when Mother Superior recalled her.

"Do you go without any sign?" said she. "Is that the way you receive reproof and command?"

Sister Catherine knelt and kissed the ground at the superior's feet. Again I felt truly sorry for her. When she was gone, Mother turned to me.

"And you, minion, what is this I hear? Must you turn giglet on my hands? Let me hear what you have to say on this matter, and beware you tell me nothing but truth."

I felt my pride rising, but I put it down, and kneeling at her feet I laid the packet on her lap with the seal unbroken.

"From whom had you this?" she asked.

I told her from Mrs. Anne Bullen.

"And who sent it?" she asked again.

I told her that the hand was my cousin Richard's, and that Mrs. Bullen told me it came from him, but farther than that I did not know. I ventured to add that it had but just been placed in my hands when Sister Catherine came in. She looked at the packet, and her face relaxed as she saw the seals were unbroken.

"Rosamond," said she, laying her hand on my head, as I knelt before her, and speaking with great earnestness: "you were given me by your own mother, the dearest friend I ever had, and I have loved you like a daughter. I have ever found you open and true as the day, and I cannot but believe you so still, though appearances are against you. Tell me, as if you were speaking to the priest at confession. Is this the first time you have received packet or token from your cousin?"

"From my cousin, or any one else," I told her.

"And what had Mistress Bullen to say to you?"

I repeated every word, as near as I could remember. She laid the packet aside, and seemed to muse a little, still keeping her hand on my head.

"Well, well, I believe you and trust you," she said, finally. "Do you leave the matter with me, and avoid any intimacy or conversation with Mrs. Bullen, so far as you can without exciting remark. Remember that though you have not taken the vows, you have promised your mother and been promised by her, and that 'tis a deadly sin for a religious so much as to entertain a thought of earthly love. It is treason to your heavenly Bridegroom, to whom all your allegiance is due. He has called you to a grace compared to which the highest earthly marriage is degradation and pollution; and the day that sees you vowed to Him will be the proudest of your life."

Much more she said in the same strain, as to the putting down all earthly affections and desires, and remembering that I had now no more to do with the world in any form. "You have talent and address," she concluded, "and I would fain train you up to succeed me in this chair, though it is a seat of thorns. The notion hath somehow gotten abroad that the discipline of this house is relaxed and disordered. It was that which brought us the Bishop's unexpected visit. I fear I have indeed been lax in government, and that some irregularities have crept in, as in the case of the wardrobe and storerooms, which could never have gotten into such a state if they had had due superintendence. So soon as the Queen leaves us we must have a thorough reform. Go now, my child, and as this is not your day of attendance on the Queen, you shall return to your translation, which I fear has fared but badly of late."

And with that she gave me her blessing and dismissed me to my work. I suppose I am very perverse. When Richard's packet was in my hand I was so angry with him for his thoughtlessness that I cared only to get rid of it; and now that it is out of my reach I would give anything to have it again. I dare say it is nothing after all but a simple brotherly gift, with some book of devotion or case of working tools, such as I remember he promised to send me. I am not sorry I gave it to Mother Superior, because it was the right thing to do; but—but I am a fool, and there is an end. I will never believe that Richard hath become any such court gallant as Mrs. Anne says. 'Twas not in his nature, and if I had read his letter I should have found it just such a simple, blundering epistle as he used to write me from Exeter. Strange, how my mind runs on it!

CHAPTER XII.

August 2.        

I MET Mrs. Bullen in the garden this morning, and was passing her with a grave salutation, when she stopped me.

"So, Mistress Rosamond, you have well requited my good-nature. A fine lecture I have had from my mistress and your starched Lady Abbess! I am beholden to you for bringing me into disgrace, and I will remember it, I assure you!"

I told her that I had not meant to bring her into disgrace, and was sorry that I had done so—that I had had no choice about showing the package, which had brought me into danger of disgrace and punishment as well.

"Well, well!" said she, lightly. "I meant you a kindness, and nothing more. I dare say Cousin Richard will easily console himself. There are plenty of fair ladies about the French court who will not scorn the favor of a handsome young Englishman. I would I were back there myself, for this English court is triste and dull enow, even without keeping retreats in this grim old jail. As to my Lady Abbess, let her look to her reign and enjoy it while she can. There is thunder abroad in the air, and who knows where it will strike!"

"Do you mean this Lutheran heresy?" I asked. "Surely the King does not favor it, and the Queen abhors it."

"O yes, the Queen abhors it!" said she, catching up my words with a mocking tone. "And doubtless her Grace's influence is all powerful with his Majesty. Nevertheless, it did not prevail to save the convents which yonder proud cardinal put down the other day. But why should I say these things to you? You are but a doll, like all nuns—a puppet that must needs dance as your strings are pulled."

"Then if I am a puppet, I will strive to be an obedient one," said I; "methinks a puppet would do little, setting up for itself."

She laughed at the conceit, in her pretty, merry way.

"Well, well, 'tis no use to be angry with you, I see, and if you brought me into a scrape, I did the same by you, so we are even. As for Cousin Richard, he will soon console himself, as I said. Country cousins will be of little account with him when he sees the fair damsels that cluster round the French Queen. No disparagement to you, fair Rosamond!"

So we parted, good friends enough; but I cannot but be vexed with myself for dwelling on her words. What is it to me whether Richard consoles himself or not? I hope his simpleness will not be befooled, that is all. If I could have read his letter I might have guessed—but what am I saying?

CHAPTER XIII.

August 12, Feast of St. Clare.        

THE Queen goes to-morrow, and I am right glad on't. Not that I have aught against her Grace. She has been a good mistress to me, and I have learned many things of Mistress Patience, chiefly the art of knitting stockings, with which I am delighted. Moreover, I believe the restraint I have had to put on myself in the presence, has been good discipline for me, who am ever apt to speak without thought.

Another privilege I have gained by my attendance on the Queen, which I fear I shall sorely miss. I mean that of walking abroad. The Queen hath visited the poor people in the village, and all about here, even to two or three miles distant; and as Amice cannot walk far on account of her lame ancle, I have attended her Grace, along with Mistress Patience, and Master Griffith, who is a very sober, good-natured gentleman, about as old as my father. It did seem marvellous pleasant to be going to the cottages once more, nursing the babes, chatting with the good wives, and making acquaintance with the children. Mistress Bullen sometimes goes with us, and the men are loud in praise of her beauty and kindness. I don't think the women fancy her so much, and I must say I don't fancy her at all any more.

The Queen is very liberal, and gives with an open hand; but she is shrewd, too, and will not be imposed upon. Roger Smith, whom she met in the street, told her Grace a pitiful tale of his sick wife and children, and his want of work. She said but little at the time, giving him a small alms, but presently she turned to me and asked if I knew anything about them. I told her that he had help constantly from our house; besides that, we bought fish of him, whenever we could get them.

"And can he not get them as oft as you need them?" she asked.

I told her I knew no reason why he could not, as the sea was but a few miles away, and I knew he owned a boat; but added that I thought he was not over fond of work, so long as he could get bread without. She made no remark that day, but the next time we were out, she asked a little urchin who was playing in a pool of dirty water, where Roger Smith lived. He put his thumb in his mouth and hung down his head, but presently pointed out a very dirty cottage, with a dunghill before the door, strewed all over with fish-heads and the like. The smell was so bad, that Mrs. Patience ventured a remonstrance, but her Grace persevered, and we entered the cottage. There lay Roger on the settle bed, in what was plainly a drunken sleep. On the rude table lay the remains of a couple of fowls, amid fish-bones, fragments of bread, and ribs of some animal looking mightily like a deer's, while a slatternly woman, and a bold, impudent-looking girl were just beginning to clear away, though it was nearly nine o'clock of the morning. It was clear there had been a debauch over night; and that, whatever else might be needed, there was no want of food. Her Grace looked deliberately round the room, and then turned away.

"What do you please to want, Madam?" asked the woman, in a half servile, half impudent tone.

"I heard there was a sick woman with sick children living here;" answered her Grace, "and that they were in want of food; but fowls, and venison, and strong waters, and a man asleep at this time of day, are no arguments either of poverty or honesty."

And with that she turned and left the house, without another word said, only the girl gave an insolent laugh. Dame Lee, on whom we called afterward, and whom we found spinning of fine thread, though she is above eighty years old, told us that the Smiths were a shame and scandal to the whole village—that the housewife herself was no better than she should be, and Roger a good deal worse.

"That is the way the good Sisters get imposed upon, because they cannot go out to see for themselves," said she. "There is no need for that family ever to ask an alms, and the same is true of others in the place; while those who really need help, are many of them too modest to ask, or too feeble to reach the gate, or hold their own amid the press about it."

"Can you direct us to some of these poor souls of whom you speak?" asked the Queen.

Dame Lee spoke of several, and pointed out their dwelling-places to us, and then mentioned another.

"There is Magdalen Jewell, who lives alone by herself in the moor, at the foot of Grey Tor," said she. "'Tis a lonesome place, and perhaps your ladyship may not care to walk so far."

"How far?" asked the Queen.

"Nay, 'tis but a scant mile, but the way is somewhat rough," answered the dame.

"And is this Magdalen of whom you speak a widow?" asked the Queen.

"No Madam, she hath never been married. She took care of her old father as long as he lived, and was a most dutiful and kind daughter to him; and since his death she has bided alone, till of late that she hath adopted a little orphan maid, one of the survivors of the great wreck last winter. Magdalen owns the house she lives in, and a small garden and orchard, which, with the thread she spins, makes most part of her living. I fear she is often pinched, but she never complains, or asks for help. She might have changed her condition many times, for she was wonderful fair when I first knew her, and of good conditions, and she is a well-favored woman even now; but, nobody knows why, she would none of her suitors, and still lives alone, save, as I said, for the child she hath adopted."

"We must see this woman, I think," said the Queen, turning to Patience and myself. "And now, dame, can we do naught for you?"

The old woman drew herself up with gentle pride.

"I thank your goodness, Madam, but I have need of nothing;" said she. "I have eight sons living hereabouts, besides two sailing on the high seas, and they let their parents want for nothing. My husband is old and infirm, but he still makes a shift to busy himself about our bit of flax land and our orchard, and he also makes and mends nets, and with a good husband and dutiful children, I have no need to ask help of any one."

"Ten sons!" repeated the Queen, musingly, and methought very sadly. "You have indeed much for which to be thankful. How long have you been wedded?"

"Sixty years, Madam, have my good man and I lived together without e'er a quarrel or a wish for change," answered the dame, with gentle pride. "We have had our troubles and our pinches, specially when our children were young, and my eldest child, my only maiden, died of a long waste at seventeen. But we won through them all by the blessing of God, and in all our troubles kept a stout and loving heart. I am sure we never wished ourselves apart, or would have spared one of our little troublesome, hungry brood. I wish all wedded folk could say as much as that!"

"I wish, indeed, they might," said the Queen, with another sad cloud crossing her face (and methought I saw another on the face of Mrs. Patience). "Well, dame, since we can bestow no alms upon you, will you not bestow one upon us, and give us a draught of milk or fair water?"

The dame was evidently well pleased, and bustled about to bring forth her milk and cream, her brown bread and honey, and a dish of early apples. The Queen ate and drank, and would have us do the same. Mrs. Bullen said she was not hungry.

"Then you may eat a little to please the good woman," said the Queen, speaking in French, and more sharply, methought, than was needful; but, somehow, I think she is apt to be sharp with Mistress Anne. "I have seen you make your court before now by eating when you had no need."

Mistress Anne colored as red as fire, but she obeyed without a word. When we had eaten and drank, her Grace took from her breast a very small gold crucifix.

"This cross, good dame, hath had the blessing of our holy Father at Rome, and holds, beside, some earth from the holy sepulchre. I pray you keep it as an aid to your devotion and a remembrance of Queen Catherine; and when you look thereon, give me the benefit of your prayers."

"There now is a woman to be envied, if envy were not a sin," said her Grace, as we quitted the house. "Think you not so, maidens?"

"Not I, for one, Madam," answered Mistress Bullen. "What has her life been but one long slavery? What pleasure is there in such a life—just mending, and saving, and cooking, and washing—nursing stupid children, and waiting on her clod of a husband. Methinks one hour of real life, such as we had at the French court, would be worth it all!"

"And you, maiden, what do you think?" asked her Grace, turning to me.

"It was a saying of my honored mother's that love makes easy service, Madam," I answered. "I think such a life as that of the good dame's may be as noble and honorable in the sight of God, as that of any woman in the world."

"That is a strange speech for a nun," said Mrs. Anne, with her usual levity. "What, as honorable as that of a religious?"

"Yes, if she were called to it," I answered.

"And to last so long—sixty years of drudging and poverty," said Mrs. Anne, with a shudder: "No, no! A short life and a merry one for me."

[I thought of these words many a time after that short and merry life had come to its miserable close, and that fair head, with the crown it coveted and wrought for, lay together on the scaffold. I did never believe the shameful charges brought against her, by which her death was compassed, but 'tis impossible to acquit her of great lightness of conduct, and want of womanly delicacy, or of the worse faults of lawless ambition and treachery against her kind mistress, than whom no one need wish a better. Though I am and have long been of the reformed religion, my feelings have ever been on the side of Queen Catherine.]

The next day we went across the moor, to see the woman, Magdalen Jewell, of whom Dame Lee had told us. Mistress Anne was not with us, pleading a headache as an excuse, and I was not sorry to miss her company, but we had Master Griffith instead, and a serving man, who led the Queen's donkey. The rest of us walked; and oh, what joy it was to me to feel the springy turf under foot, and smell the fresh odors of the moorland once more! How beautiful the world is! I can't think why God hath made it so fair, and then set it before us as our highest duty to shut ourselves from it between stone walls. "The earth is the Lord's and the fulness thereof," we sing in the Venite, and all the Psalms are full of such thoughts. But this is beside the matter.

We had a charming walk over the high, breezy moor, and Master Griffith entertained us with remembrances of his own country of Wales, where he says the people speak a language of their own, as they do in some parts of Cornwall. The Queen riding before us, would now and then put in a word to keep him going.

Presently the path dipped into a little hollow, and there we saw the cottage at the foot of the Tor which had been our landmark all the way. 'Twas to my mind more like a nest than a cottage, so small was it, and so covered (where the vine gave the stones leave to show themselves) with gray and yellow lichens. A humble porch well shaded with a great standard pear, and fragrant with honeysuckle and sweetbriar, held the good woman's chair, wherein lay a spindle and distaff.

Magdalen herself was at work in her garden, gathering of herbs to dry, and attended by quite a retinue. There was a very old dog lying blinking in the sunshine, and a motherly cat with two or three mischievous kitlings, and also a lame and tame goose, which attended her mistress' footsteps, and now and then with hisses and outspread wings chased away the kitlings, when they made too free. A more important member of the party was the little orphan maid, a child of some five years, who with grave and womanly industry, was carrying away the cut herbs, and spreading them in the shade to dry. A row of beehives reached all the length of the garden wall, and before them a bed of sweet flowers and herbs, such as bees love. On one side was a field in which fed a cow and an ass, while on the other was a small and old, but well-tended orchard, and at the bottom of this a still, glassy pool. Behind all, rose the gray, steep Tor, like a protecting fortress. It was a lovely picture, and one on which I could have gazed an hour; but presently, the woman catching sight of us, laid aside her industry, and came forward to give us welcome, which she did I must say somewhat stiffly at the first. But she presently thawed into more cordiality under the charm of her Grace's manner, and remarking that we had had a long walk, she busied herself to provide refreshment.

"Pray do not incommode yourself, my good woman," said the Queen: "we have come but from the convent yonder, where I am at present abiding, and this is one of the young pupils, whom I dare say you have seen."

"Not I, madam!" she answered, somewhat bluntly. "I have no errand to take me to the convent since I desire no alms at the hands of the ladies, and I have naught to sell but that which their own gardens supply."

"You might go thither for purposes of devotion," said the Queen: "'tis a great privilege to worship in a church possessed of so many holy relics."

A strange look, methought, passed over the woman's face, as her Grace spoke, but she made no answer to the Queen, only to press us to eat and drink.

"And you live here quite alone, save this child?" said the Queen, after she had asked and heard an account of the little maiden.

"Aye, madam, ever since my old father died, some ten years since, till this child was sent me, as it were."

"But had you no brother, or other relative?" Again the strange look crossed Magdalen's face, as she answered: "I had a brother once, and for aught I know he may be living now; but 'tis long since I have seen or heard from him. Our paths went different ways."

"How so?" asked the Queen.

"Because I chose to maintain my old father in his helplessness, and he chose to bestow himself in yonder abbey of Glastonbury, with his portion of my gaffer's goods."

"Doubtless he chose wisely!" she added, with a scorn which I cannot describe. "'Twas an easier life than tilling barren land, and bearing with the many humors of a childish, testy old man."

"You should not speak so of your brother," said the Queen, somewhat severely.

"You are right, Madam;" answered Magdalen, softening. "Scorn becomes not any sinner, whose own transgressions have been many. Nevertheless, under your favor, I believe my brother did mistake his duty in this thing."

"Yet you yourself have chosen a single life, it seems!" said the Queen. "Why was that?"

"I did not choose it," she said quietly, but yet her face was moved. "'Twas so ordered for me, and I make the best of it. I doubt not many married women are happier than I; but yourself must see, Madam, that no single woman, so she be good and virtuous, can possibly be as miserable as is many a good and virtuous wife, through no fault of her own; aye—and while she hath nothing of which she may complain before the world."

"'Tis even so!" said her Grace; and again saw the cloud upon her brow. I wonder if she is unhappy with her husband? After a little silence, the Queen fell to talking of the child, and after some discourse, she offered to leave with the parish priest such a sum of money as should be a dower for the girl, whether she should marry or enter a convent. Magdalen colored and hesitated.

"I thank you much for your kindness," said she, at last. "I have never yet received an alms, but the child is an orphan, and hath no earthly protection but myself; and should I die before my brother, he, or the men with whom he has placed himself, would take that small portion of goods which belongs to me, and little Catherine would be left wholly destitute. I believe Sir John, the village priest, to be a good man, so far as his lights go, and anything you may be pleased to place in his hands will be safe. I therefore accept your offer and thank you with all my heart; and may the blessing of the God of the fatherless abide upon you."

"That seems like a good woman," remarked Master Griffith to Mistress Patience, after we had left the cottage.

"Yet I liked not her saying about the priest," returned Mrs. Patience, austerely. "What did she mean by her limitation—'A good man, so far as his lights go,' forsooth! What is she, to judge of his lights? Methinks the saying savored somewhat too much of Lollardie, or Lutheranism."

"Then, if I thought so, I would not say so," said Master Griffith, in a low tone. "You would not like to cast a suspicion on the poor creature, which might bring her to the stake at last."

Whereat Mistress Patience murmured something under her breath about soft-heartedness toward heretics being treason to the Church; but she added no more. I think Master Griffith hath great influence over her, and if I may venture to say so, over his mistress as well; and I wonder not at it, for he hath a calm, wise way with him, and a considerate manner of speaking, which seems to carry much weight. It was odd, certainly, what Magdalen Jewell said about the priest, and also about her brother. It does seem hard that he should have gone away and left her to bear the whole burden of nursing and maintaining her father, and yet, as we are taught to believe, it is he who hath chosen the better part. Another thing which struck me about this same Magdalen was, that she was so wonderful well spoken, for a woman in her state of life. Even her accent was purer than that of the women about here, and she used marvellous good phrases, as though she were conversant with well-educated people.

This was the last of our walks. To-morrow the Queen goes, and then I shall fall back into my old way of life again, I suppose—writing, and working, and walking in the garden for recreation. Well, I must needs be content, since there is no other prospect before me for my whole life. It will not be quite so monotonous as that of the poor lady who lived for twenty years in the Queen's room, and never looked out.

I ought to say, that when we returned from visiting Magdalen Jewell, we found that a post had arrived with letters for the Queen, and also a packet for Mistress Anne, who seemed wonderful pleased with her news, and with a fine ring which she said her brother had sent her.

"Your brother is very generous," said her Grace, (and I saw her face flush and her eyes flash.) "Methinks I have seen that same ring before. 'Tis not very becoming for your brother to make so light of his Majesty's gifts, as to bestow them, even on his sister."

"I trust your Grace will be so good as not to betray my poor brother's carelessness to his Majesty," answered Mrs. Bullen, with an air and tone of meekness, which seemed to me to have much of mocking therein. "It might prove the ruin of us both."

To my great terror and amazement, the Queen turned absolutely pale as ashes, and put out her hand for support. Both Mrs. Anne and myself sprang forward, but she recovered herself in a moment, and her color came back again.

"'Tis nothing," said she, quietly. "I think the heat was too much for me. Patience, your arm; I will lie down awhile."

The glance which Patience cast on Mrs. Bullen in passing, was such as one might give to a viper or other loathsome reptile. Mrs. Bullen, on her part, returned it, with a mocking smile. Presently I saw her in the garden in close conference with Amice, as indeed I have done several times before. I cannot guess what they should have in common, and it is all the more odd that I know Amice does not like her.

CHAPTER XIV.

August 14.        

HER Grace left us yesterday, and to-day Amice and I have been helping Mother Gertrude to put her rooms to rights, and close them once more.

"How lonely they look," said I, as we were going round closing the shutters. "I suppose they will always be called, 'The Queen's Chambers,' after this; and will be looked on as a kind of hallowed ground."

"They will always be hallowed ground to me, I am sure," said Amice, so warmly, that I looked at her in surprise.

"Well, well, I am not sorry they are empty once more," said Mother Gertrude. "I trust now we shall go back to our old quiet ways, and at least we shall have no more singing of love songs and receiving of love tokens, within these holy walls. Yonder fair Bullen is no inmate for such a place as this."

"Why should you think of love tokens, dear Mother?" I asked, feeling my checks burn, and wondering whether she referred to me, though indeed I might have known she did not. 'Tis not her way to hint at anything.

"Because Mistress Anne must needs show me her fine diamond ring, and tell me in a whisper how it was a token from a gallant gentleman, as great as any in this realm."

"She said it came from her brother," said I, unguardedly, and then I all at once remembered what she had said in the presence, and the Queen's answer. Can it be that her Grace was jealous, and that she had cause for jealousy? However, that is no business for me.

Mrs. Bullen must needs watch her chance and ask me whether I had no message or token for my cousin? I told her no—that in my position, it did not become me to be sending messages or tokens: but I did not add what I thought—that if I had any such message, she would be the last person I should trust therewith.

"Well, well, I meant you naught but kindness," said she. "I dare say our squire wont break his heart."

To which I made no answer.

Mother Superior gave me leave to write to my father by Master Griffith, who kindly offered to carry a letter. When I had finished, I carried it to her, as in duty bound. She just glanced at it, and then opening a drawer, she took therefrom poor Richard's packet and enclosed all together, sealing them securely, and said she would give the parcel into Master Griffith's hands, together with certain letters of her own. My heart gave a great leap at sight of the packet, and I must confess a great ache when I saw it sealed up again, because I knew how sadly Richard would feel at having his poor little letter and token returned on his hands; and I am quite sure he meant no harm in sending them, though it was ill considered.

The Queen gave magnificently to the Church and house on leaving, and also bestowed presents on those members of the family who have waited on her, mostly books of devotion, beads, and sacred pictures. She hath also provided for an annual dole of bread and clothing on her birthday to all the poor of the village.

CHAPTER XV.

August 25.        

WE have begun the general reformation which Mother Superior promised us. I suppose, like other storms, it will clear the air when all is done, but at present it raises a good deal of dust, and makes every body uncomfortable.

Mother Gabrielle and Mother Gertrude still keep their old places, the one as sacristine, the other as mistress of the novices and pupils. But Sister Catherine is discharged of the care of the wardrobe, and Sister Bridget, of all people, set in her place. Sister Bonaventure takes Sister Bridget's place in the laundry, and Sister Mary Paula is in charge of the kitchen, which I fancy she does not like over well, though she says nothing. Sister Mary Agnes has the accounts, and Sister Placida the alms. As to Sister Catherine, she is nowhere and nobody, which I suppose will give her all the more time to meddle with everybody. She has been in retreat for a week, and is still very mum and keeps quiet. I have still charge of the library, to my great joy, and Amice is by special favor appointed to help Mother Gabrielle in the sacristy.

Our rules are to be more strictly enforced in future. No more exclusive friendships are to be permitted. Silence is to be rigidly enforced, and in short we are to turn over a new leaf entirely. A great deal of needlework is to be put in hand directly, including new altar covers for the shrine of Saint Ethelburga in the garden, for which her Grace hath given very rich materials. Besides we are to make many garments for the poor against winter.

A good many wry faces have been made over all these changes. For my own part I like them well enough. I think people are always more comfortable when each one knows his own place and his own work. Perhaps I should feel differently if I had been put out of office, like Sister Catherine, or set to work I did not like, as was Sister Mary Paula. Poor Sister Catherine! She little thought how it was to end when she used to talk about the enforcement of discipline. I must say, that as far as the wardrobe goes, she had no right to complain, for she did keep everything at sixes and sevens, so that two whole pieces of nice black serge were spoiled by her negligence, and many of the spare napkins were moulded through and through. I ventured to ask Mother Gertrude how she thought Sister Bridget would succeed.

"Why, well enough, child," she answered. "Sister Bridget's mind is not very bright, but she always gives the whole of it to whatever she does."

"I have noticed that," said I. "If she is folding a napkin, or ironing an apron, you may ask her as many questions as you will, and you will get no answer from her till she has done folding or ironing, as the case may be."

"Just so; and she hath another good quality, in that she will take advice. When she does not know what to do she will ask, which is to my mind a greater argument of humility than any kissings of the floor, or such like performances."

Amice and I do not see as much of each other as we used, but she is always loving when we meet. She appears to me, somehow, very greatly changed. At times she seems to have an almost heavenly calmness and serenity in her face; at others she seems sad and anxious, but she is always kind and gentle. She is much in prayer, and reads diligently in the Psalter, which the Queen gave her. Sister Gabrielle has grown very fond of her, though she was vexed at first that Amice was assigned to her instead of myself; but she says Amice is so gentle and humble, so anxious to please, and to improve herself in those points wherein she is deficient, that she cannot but love the child. I have, at Amice's own request, taught her all the lace and darning stitches I know, and she practises them diligently, though she used to despise them. I am teaching her to knit stockings, an art I learned of Mistress Patience, and we mean to have a pair made for the Bishop against his next visit.

CHAPTER XVI.

St. Michael's Eve, Sept. 28.        

IT is a long time since I have touched this book, and many things have happened. Ours is now a sad household. Out of the twenty-three professed Sisters and novices who used to meet in the choir, but fifteen remain. The rest lie under the turf in our cemetery. Mother Gabrielle is gone, and poor Sister Bridget, and of the novices, Sisters Mary Frances and Agatha. Mother Gertrude had the disease, but was spared. Three others recovered. The rest were not attacked. The disease was the dreadful Sweating sickness. It began first in the village, in the household of that same Roger Smith, but broke out in three or four other cottages the same day. The news was brought to the convent gates the next morning by some who came for alms, as they use to do on Wednesdays and Fridays, and produced great consternation.

"What are we to do now?" said Sister Catherine, while the elders were in conference by themselves.

"We shall do as we are told, I suppose," answered Sister Bridget, with her wonted simplicity.

"But don't you suppose Mother Superior will order the gates to be shut, and no communication held with the villagers?" said Sister Mary Paula.

"I should certainly suppose not;" answered Sister Placida. "Think what you are saying, dear Sister! Would you deprive the poor souls of their alms, just when they are most wanted? Methinks it would ill become religious women to show such cowardly fears."

"Beside that I don't believe it would make any difference," said I. "Master Ellenwood, who has studied medicine, told my father the disease was not so much infectious, as in the air. I wish we might go out among the poor folk, to see what they need, and help to nurse the sick, as my mother and her women used to do."

"Rosamond is always ready for any chance to break her enclosure," said Sister Catherine, charitable as usual. "She would even welcome the pestilence, if it gave her a pretext to get outside her convent walls."

"Sister Catherine," said Sister Placida, reprovingly, "you are wrong to speak so to the child. Why should you be so ready to put a wrong construction on her words? I am sure the wish is natural enough. I had thought of the same thing myself."

"O yes, I dare say," retorted Sister Catherine. And then, with one of her sudden changes, "but I am wrong to answer you so, Sister. It is my part to accept even undeserved reproof with humility, and be thankful that I am despised."

"Nonsense," returned Sister Placida, who is by no means so placid as her name, "I think you would show more humility by considering whether the reproof was not deserved. As to being thankful for being despised, that is to my mind a little too much like being thankful for another's sin."

"How so?" I asked.

"Why, in order to being despised, there must needs be some one to despise you, child, and is not contempt a sin?"

I do like Sister Placida, though she is just as often sharp with me as Sister Catherine, but it is in such a different way.

"Anyhow, I hope they wont shut out the poor folk," said Sister Bridget.

"Who is talking about shutting out the poor folk?" asked Mother Gertrude's voice, coming in sharp and clear as usual, (by the way I ought to call her Mother Assistant now, but I never can remember to do so.) "Children, why are you all loitering here, instead of being about your business in the house? Let every one set about her duty just as usual, and at obedience, you will hear what has been decided."

[Obedience is that hour in a convent when the nuns assemble with the Superior to give an account of their labors, to receive special charges, and not seldom special reproofs as well. In our house this gathering took place just after morning recreation. Amice and I, not being even regular postulants, had no business there, and since the reformation in the house, we have never attended, but we were called in to-day, and took our places at the lower end of the line, and therefore next the Superior, who addressed us in few but weighty words, which I will set down as well as I can remember them.]

There was no doubt, she said, that the pestilence known as the sweating sickness had broken out in the village, and we might with reason expect its appearance among ourselves, at any time. She said she had heard with sorrow that some of her children had desired to have the gates closed against the poor folk who used to come for alms. Such cowardliness as this was unbecoming to any well-born lady, and above all to religious, who were doubly bound to set a good example of courage and resignation: but she was willing to think this only a momentary failing, which a second thought would correct; and she bade us consider that there would be no use in shutting the gates now, since they were opened yesterday, as usual.

Then she told us what she, with the advice of our confessor and the other elders, had decided upon. The doles were to be given out at the outer gate, by the proper officers, only they were to be given every day, instead of Wednesdays and Fridays. The two distributing Sisters were to be helped by two others, taken in turn from the professed, to hand the things as they were wanted. All embroidery, with other unnecessary work of every kind, was to be laid aside, and all were to employ themselves under the direction of the Mother Assistant and herself in making linen and in preparing food, cordials, and drinks for the poor. If any Sister felt herself ill in any way, she was at once to repair to the infirmary, and report herself to Sister Placida. Finally, we were all to have good courage, to give ourselves as much as possible to prayer, and such religious meditation as should keep us in a calm, cheerful, and recollected frame of mind, observing our hours of recreation as usual; and she added that nobody was to presume to take on herself any extra penances or exercises without express permission from her superior or confessor.

"We are all under sentence of death, dear children, as you know!" concluded Mother, "And it matters little how our dismissal comes, so we are ready. Let us all confess ourselves, so that the weight, at least, of mortal sin may not rest on our consciences here, or go with us into the other world. If we are called to suffer, let us accept those sufferings as an atonement for our sins, considering that the more we have to endure here, the less we may believe will be the pains of purgatory hereafter. As for these children," she added, turning to Amice and myself, who stood next her, "what shall I say to them?"

"Say, dear Mother, that we may take our full share of work and risk with the Sisters!" exclaimed Amice, kneeling before her. "I am sure I speak for Rosamond as well as myself, when I say that is what we desire most of all, is it not, Rosamond?"

"Surely," I answered, as I knelt by her side: "I ask nothing more than that."

"And what becomes of the Latin and Music lessons, and the embroidery, and our learned librarian's translations?" asked Mother Superior, smiling on us.

"They can wait," I answered.

"And surely, dearest Mother, the lessons we shall learn will be far more valuable than any Latin or music," added Amice.

"Well, well, be it as you will!" said dear Mother, laying her hands on our heads as we knelt before her. "Surely, dear children, none of us will show any fear or reluctance, since these babes set us such a good example. Well, hold yourselves ready, my little ones, and wherever you are wanted, there shall you be sent."

That afternoon there was a great bustle in the wardrobe; taking down of linen, and cutting out of shifts and bed-gowns, and the like, and in the still-room and kitchen as well, with preparing of medicines, chiefly cordial and restoratives, and mild drinks, such as barley and apple waters, and the infusion of lime blossoms, balm and mint. This was by the advice of Mother Mary Monica, who has seen the disease before, and understands its right treatment. She says that those who on the first sign of the disorder took to their beds and remained there for twenty-four hours, moderately covered, and perfectly quiet, and drinking of mild drinks, neither very hot, nor stimulating, nor yet cold, almost all recovered; but that purges, exercise, hot or cold drinks and stimulants, were equally fatal. The dear old Mother has seemed failing of late, but this alarm has roused her up and made her like a young woman again.

Thus things went on for more than a week. We heard of great suffering among the villagers for lack of nurses who knew how to treat the disease, and also because from selfish fear of taking the pestilence, people refused to go near the sick and dying. One day Mother Superior was called to the grate, and presently sent for me to the parlor, where I found her talking through the grate to a woman whom I at once knew as Magdalen Jewell of Torfoot. Hers is not a face to be forgotten.

"This good woman says she believes you were at her house with her Grace," says Mother.

I answered that I was so, and added that her Grace did much commend the neatness of the place and the kindness of Magdalen in taking the little one. I saw Magdalen's face work.

"The babe hath been taken home!" said she, almost sternly. "God's will be done! I have been telling these ladies that there are divers orphan maids in the village (left so by this sickness), who are running wild, and are like either to die for lack of care, or worse, to fall into the hands of gypsies and other lawless persons, whom this pestilence seems to have let loose to roam about this wretched land."

"Are there so many dead in the village?" asked Mother Gertrude.

"There is not a house where there is or hath not been one dead!" answered Magdalen; "And the terror is worse than the pestilence; children are deserted by parents, and they in their turn by children, and 'tis the same with all other relations. 'Tis a woeful spectacle!"

"Could not you yourself take these poor babes to your home, since you have one?" asked Mother Gertrude.

"I cannot be spared, madam," answered Magdalen: "I must nurse the sick."

"That is very good in you, and you must take comfort in the thought that you are thereby laying up merit for yourself!" said Mother Superior.

I saw an odd expression pass over Magdalen's face, but she made no reply.

"And you think we might take these babes and care for them, at least till the present emergency is passed?" said Mother.

"Nay, madam, I did but state the case to you," answered Magdalen; "'tis not for me to presume to offer advice."

"But what to do with them, if we took them?" said Mother Superior, in a musing tone. Then catching my eye, which I suppose ought to have been on the floor instead of on her face: "Here is Rosamond, with a ready-made plan, as usual. Well, child, you have permission to speak. What is brewing under that eager face?"

"I was thinking, dear Mother, that I am used to young children," said I. "Why could I not take these little maids into one of the rooms called the Queen's room, and tend them there? I suppose there are not many of them."

"I know of but five utterly friendless maids," answered Magdalen.

"Then I am sure I could care for them, with some help and advice," said I. "They would be away from the rest of the family, and would disturb no one; and if we were kept in health, I might teach them as well."

"'Tis a good thought, but we must do nothing hastily," said Mother Superior. "We ought to have the permission of our visitor, the Bishop, but he is now in Bristol, and some days must elapse before we could hear from him, and this seems a case for instant action."

"I am sure you would say so, madam, could you see the state of these poor babes!" returned Magdalen.

"Well, well, come to-morrow, and we will see," said Mother. "Meantime the holy relics are exposed in the church for the comfort of the faithful in this trying time. You had better visit them, and then go to the buttery and obtain some refreshment."

However, she did neither—I suppose from want of time. The next day she came again, and to my great joy, Mother consented, the need being so great, to receive the five little maidens, who were placed under my care in the Queen's room—Mother Mary Monica, at her own earnest request, being allowed to remain with us and oversee our proceedings. We began with a good washing and combing all round (not a nice piece of work by any means), and then dressed them in clean clothes, of which we had a plenty by us made up for our regular autumn doles. The dear old Mother was as pleased as a child with a new doll. I can't say the same for the poor children, who were strange, and scared, and at first hardly to be pacified; but by degrees they seemed to find the comfort of being clean, and by night they were all merrily at play, as if nothing had happened to them. We made up as many cot beds as there were children, and my own bed was moved into the room. Sister Anne also slept in the room till she was taken sick, when Amice was allowed to take her place.

I don't think, for my own part, that I was ever happier than when playing with these children, or teaching them their hornbook and the use of their little fat fingers. The oldest is about ten, a wise motherly little maid, and a great help to us with the others. The youngest is only three—the sole survivor of Roger Smith's family. Considering what the family was like, we may hope her loss may prove a gain.

There were many different opinions in the house concerning the sheltering of these orphans. Sister Catherine, who has not had so much to say about discipline since her dismissal from office, opened her mouth once more to protest against the great irregularity of our taking the babes, and the utter impropriety of their being committed to the care of the youngest person in the house. But Sister Placida, who is great in the history of this and other orders, and who has no objection (or so I think) to putting down Sister Catherine, brought so many precedents to bear against her, that she was fain to betake herself to her humility, her usual refuge when worsted. Some were terrified at the notion of bringing infection into the house; but in general, I must say, the Sisters were very kind to the poor children, and very glad of an excuse to slip away, and play with them.

It was two weeks after the pestilence broke out in the village before it appeared in the house. Sister Bridget was the first victim. She was taken in the night, with the heat and sweat, and, poor creature, had no more wit than to rise and stand for half an hour or more at the open window of her cell, till Mother Gertrude, making her rounds, discovered her state. She was taken at once to the infirmary, and died in a few hours, very happy and resigned, and saying, with almost her last breath, poor thing, that everybody had been very kind to her. From that time we had a new case or two every day for a week. Almost every one who had resolution enough to remain quietly in bed and bear the all but intolerable discomfort of the heat and bad odor, recovered; but many were light-headed, and unless watched every moment, would throw off the clothes and otherwise expose themselves: and every one who got the slightest chill died without remedy.

It was a trying time, and one which showed what people were made of; for the discipline of the family was necessarily much relaxed, the care of the sick being the principal matter, and each one showed in her true colors—very unexpected colors some of them have been. Mother Gabrielle, who has always been rather fussy and fidgetty, and especially apt to be scared on small occasions, and to fret over little accidents and losses, was as calm and cheerful as a summer morning, till she was taken down herself, when she made a most edifying end. Mother Superior, though calm and composed, was very sad. Mother Gertrude, just as usual.

In general I must say the Sisters have behaved very well. Sister Catherine was the most alarmed of anybody, and made herself rather a trouble by going round asking everybody's pardon and wanting to kiss their feet, which was not always quite convenient when one had a jug of barley water, or a crying babe in one's arms. She wanted to help in the infirmary, but she cried so, and was besides so unwilling to obey orders without some little variation of her own, that Sister Placida dispensed with her help very suddenly. At last she took to her own bed with a kind of nervous fever; and as she was not very sick, everybody was rather glad to have her out-of-the-way.

Sister Mary Paula was quite different. From the first she attended steadily to her work, speaking but little, but very kind and sober in her demeanor. One morning, when I went to the kitchen for the children's dinner, at ten o'clock, she stopped me.

"Rosamond, did you know who it was told the Bishop of your sending a love token to your cousin?"

"Nay!" said I. "I had not an idea, nor do I wish to know, since no harm has come of it."

"Well, it was I!" said she, bluntly, turning scarlet as she spoke. "My brother is the Bishop's chaplain, and when he came to see me, I managed to slip a note into his hand, telling him the whole story, as I had heard it!"

"But, dear Sister, how could you do that, since yourself told me you could not write?" I asked, in amazement.

"I did not write it—that was done by another hand!" she answered me. "But 'twas I conveyed it to my brother. I fancied, or tried to fancy, that I was moved by zeal for religion and for the honor of this house; but my eyes have been opened lately, and I see things more clearly. 'Twas mere spite and envy, because I thought you a favorite. I desired to bring you into disgrace, or to cause your removal from the house; and I beg your pardon."

"I am sure you have it, with all my heart!" said I, kissing her. "Nay, there is naught to pardon, since all turned out to my advantage at last."

"Yes, the stones we threw returned on our own heads!" she answered. "And so they ought. Here, take these cakes for your brats. Do they all keep well?"

"All!" I told her, but added that she did not look well herself, and I feared she was working too hard.

"Nay, I am well enough," she said, "but Rosamond, will you pray for me? My mind is distracted with all this work and worry, and I fear my prayers are of little value."

I told her I did not believe such distraction hurt our prayers, and reminded her of what Father Fabian had said about offering our work and our very distractions. She kissed me again and I went my way. That was the last time I ever saw her alive. She dropped that evening in the chapel, and died before midnight. It seemed the signal for a new outbreak of the disease. Three of my charge were attacked, and two died, and of the Sisters, three within the next three days. Mother Gabrielle was the last, and I do think she died as much as anything from sheer fatigue. I had no touch of the disorder, though I nursed all the children who had it, and also Sister Anne, whom we hoped at one time might recover; but she had a relapse, I think from getting up too soon, despite the warnings of Mother Mary Monica.

Now things have returned to their usual course, save that with the Bishop's approbation, we have kept the three children who survived, and have also taken in two more. Amice and I have the charge of teaching and overseeing them, under the real superintendence of Mother Gertrude and the nominal care of Mother Mary Monica, which mostly consists in telling them stories, cutting out figures, and begging off from pains and penalties. What a dear old grandmother she would have made!

I have heard but once from my friends in London, who are all well. My father is coming home in a few weeks.

CHAPTER XVII.

October 28.        

AMICE, is sick—I don't know what ails her, but she has been growing thin and pale ever since the pestilence, and now she has been obliged to take to her bed. She does not suffer much, save from her weakness, which so affects her nerves that she can hardly bear any one in the room with her, but prefers to stay alone. The doctor says she is to have her way in all things—a sentence which always sounds to me like that of death. My heart is like to break with the thought, but there is no help. Nobody will ever know what she has been to me.

CHAPTER XVIII.

All Saints' Day, Nov. 2.        

IT seems as if there were never more to be peace in this devoted house. Magdalen Jewell, the woman who lived at Grey Tor, the woman who nursed her neighbors all through the sickness, and has since been a mother to many an orphan, and a dutiful daughter to many a widow, Magdalen Jewell is accused of heresy, apprehended, and shut up in Saint Ethelburga's vault, till she can be removed to a stronger prison. 'Tis a shame, and I will say it. They have no business to put such an office on us, but Father Fabian, who, I do suspect, likes the business no more than I do, says 'tis done in hopes that the persuasions of himself and Mother Superior may bring her to a better mind. They say there is no doubt of her guilt.

Indeed, she herself denies it not, but glories in it, and is full of joy. I heard her myself singing of some hymn, as I judged. They say she was suspected a long time, and a man whom she had nursed in the sickness, spying upon her at night through the window, saw her many times reading in a great bound book she had. He giving information, the house was searched, and the book found. It proved to be a copy of the Scriptures in the vulgar tongue. Magdalen being apprehended, showed neither surprise nor fear, but confessed all, and gloried, as she said, that she was counted worthy to die for her religion. And now she is shut up in that horrible place, and Mother Gertrude—she who has always seemed too kind to hurt a fly, is her keeper, and unless she recants she must needs be burned. It is utterly horrible!

And they are all so hard-hearted against her! Father Fabian says it is a sin to pity a heretic, and so say all the Sisters. Even Mother Gertrude, though she offers many prayers for her conversion, says she deserves her fate, and even that the man who betrayed her did a good deed, in thus laying aside all the ties of natural affection. But I cannot think so. The man seems to me a horrible wretch and traitor, far more deserving of the stake than this good, kind woman, who has sacrificed everything to her neighbors.

My whole mind is in a tumult, and for the first time I feel as if I would give anything to leave the shadow of this roof and never see it again. And that dear old chapel, that I so loved, and where I had such sweet comfort, to be so used! I cannot write nor even think. I would Amice were well, but she is more feeble than she has been, and last night she begged that Mother Gertrude might sleep in the room with her, though she would not have her sit up.

CHAPTER XIX.

Nov. 4.        

MAGDALEN JEWELL hath escaped, at the least she hath disappeared, and no one knows what has become of her. It seems impossible that she could have got out, as there are no means whatever of opening the door from the inside, and the key hath never left Mother Gertrude's care. Some of the Sisters think that the ghost or demon, or whatever it is that hath heretofore avenged sacrilege in that chapel, hath torn her in pieces and carried her off bodily, but they say there are no signs of any such struggle. The very cruse of water which Mother Gertrude carried to the prisoner last night is standing half emptied on the floor, but the bread is all gone, so she must have eaten her supper.

Mother Gertrude, on rising, found poor Amice very much worse, faint and exhausted, which delayed her a little. When she went to the prison, she called as usual, but there was no answer. She looked through the grating in the door, usually masked by a panel on the outside, but could see nothing. Becoming scared, she sent for Mother Superior and Father Fabian, who had the tower and vault thoroughly searched, but nothing was to be found, save what had always been there. It is a most wonderful chance. I don't think Father Fabian believes very much in the demon, or he would not have searched the grounds so carefully, or asked so many questions. Mother Gertrude takes charge of all the keys at night, and places them under her pillow; and beside that, who was to steal them, supposing that such a theft were possible? Mother Gertrude is a heavy sleeper, but Amice is a very light one, specially since her illness, and she declares most positively, that she is certain nobody was in the room last night, save herself and Mother Gertrude.

It is all a dark mystery. Magdalen was to have been removed to Exeter to-day, but now Father Fabian must go instead, and give the best account he may of the matter. I cannot say that I believe very much in the demon, any more than Father Fabian. My notion is that some friend from outside hath found a way of helping the poor woman, or that there is some way of escape from the tower which we know not of.

Anyhow, I am glad she is gone, and so I can't but think there are some others, if they would say so. The tower being open, some of us young ones ventured to explore it, and even into the vaults below. The tower is simply what it looks to be—a structure of great unhewn stone, with projections here and there like shelves, and the remains of a stone staircase, though where it should lead to I cannot guess. Another stone stairs leads down to the vault, which is perfectly dark, save for one narrow slit at the very top, going into the garden. Here was once a shrine, whereof the altar and crucifix still remain. A row of niches runs all round, of which two have been built up, doubtless for burial purposes, and there are the dusty remains of several coffins, such as are used for nuns, beside two or three of lead and stone. 'Tis a dismal and dreadful place, and it seems horrible to think any living being should be confined there. Yet, the story goes that it has sometimes been used as a prison for nuns guilty of grave offences.

I drew a long breath, when I got into the free air of heaven once more, and I must say, I was glad to think poor Magdalen had escaped.

I could be as light-hearted as a bird, only that my dear Amice is so much worse. She is very low indeed, too exhausted to speak; but she lies quietly in her bed, with a look of most heavenly peace on her face. She seems most of the time engaged in inward prayer and thanksgiving, for her eyes are closed and her lips move, and now and then she opens her eyes with such a wondrous smile, as if she saw the glories of heaven open before her. What shall I do when she is gone? I dare not think. I have been sitting by her a great part of the day, and now Mother Gertrude tells me, she has asked that I may watch beside her this night, and dear Mother hath given permission. I am most thankful for the privilege, for I would not lose one moment of her dear society.

CHAPTER XX.

Nov. 8th.        

AMICE CROCKER, my dearest friend, is dead and buried—buried in a dishonored grave, by the poor lady who was prisoner in the Queen's room so long. She died a heretic, they say, without the sacraments, and they tell me it is sinful in me to love her longer. But I will love her, to the latest day of my life. I don't believe she is lost either, and nothing shall ever make me think so. Oh, that last night when I sat by her side, and she told me all!

Well, she is gone, and naught can hurt her more. I think Mother Gertrude will soon follow, for she seems utterly broken down. She might well say that no good would come of the Queen's visit. And if Amice should be right, after all, and we wrong! I must not, I dare not think of it! Alack and woe is me! I would I had died in the sickness, or ever I had lived to see this sorrowful day!

CHAPTER XXI.

Corby End, April 20, 1530.        

I LITTLE thought, a year ago, that another April would see me quietly at home in my father's house, and with such a companion—still less that I could be quite content in such a companionship. If any one had told me so, I should have laughed or been angry, I hardly know which, and yet I am quite ready to confess that 'tis all for the best.

My father, my Lady and Harry are all gone to make a visit at Fulton Manor, where is now much company to celebrate the wedding of Sir Thomas' eldest daughter. I was to have gone with them, but when the day came the weather was damp and cold; and as I am only just beginning to be strong again, my Lady and I both thought I should be better at home. Father and Harry were much disappointed, and I saw Harry was a little disposed to lay the blame on my Lady, but a little quiet reasoning and some coaxing finally made him own that all was for the best. So here I am, in sole possession of the house, and for the first time I have got out my book of chronicles.

I have read it all over, and pasted in the loose leaves where they belong, as even should I return to the convent I shall not take it with me. I am minded to continue it, especially as I can now write freely and without concealment. My stepmother never interferes in my private matters. Even Mrs. Prue, who began by attributing to her almost every fault of which woman is capable, now grudgingly admits that my Lady minds her own business, and is passing good-natured. In fact, only for that one mortal sin of marrying my father, I think the old woman would allow her new lady to be a mistress of good conditions.

I suppose I had better begin just where I left off.

The night before Amice died, she begged that I alone might sit with her, saying that Mother Gertrude needed unbroken rest, which was true. Amice was so manifestly near her end that Mother Superior did not like to refuse her anything, and Mother Gertrude somewhat unwillingly gave way. The dear Mother would have spent the whole night in prayer for her niece at the shrine of St. Ethelburga, had not Mother Superior laid her commands on her to go to bed and rest all night.

"Sit close by me, dear Rosamond," said Amice, "you know I cannot speak loud now, and I have much to say."

"You must not tire yourself by talking," said I.

"It will make no difference," she answered.

"I feel that my end is very near. Doubtless what I did last night may have hastened my death, but I do not regret it; I would do it again."

"What you did last night!" I repeated, struck with a sudden, most strange thought. "Do you mean, Amice, that you—" I could not finish the sentence.

"Hush!" said she. "Even so, Rosamond. I took the keys from under Mother Gertrude's pillow (you know how sound she sleeps, especially when she has been disturbed), opened the doors and let the prisoner free."

"But the outer door—that heavy iron door!" I exclaimed, in amazement.

"I did not open the outer door. She climbed over the wall there by the beehives. The gardener had left his ladder close by. I wonder they did not find it in the search this morning."

"I dare say he had taken it away before that he might not be blamed for his carelessness," said I. "But Amice, even then I see not how you accomplished it. We have thought you so weak."

"And so I have been," said she. "The day before, I could hardly rise without help, and after I got back to my bed, I lay for many hours so utterly exhausted that I many times thought myself dying. But at least I had the strength to call nobody, for I wished above all things that Magdalen might have time to escape. She told me at parting that with three hours' vantage, she would defy even the King's bloodhounds to find her; and I was determined she should lose that vantage through no fault of mine."

"But, if you had died, Amice—died without confession and the sacraments," said I. I knew that she had not confessed for a long time, putting off the Father by saying she was too weak, and that it hurt her to talk.

"I should not have died without confession, dearest Rosamond," said she, with an heavenly smile. "I have known this many a day that there needs no priest to make a confession valid, but that to every truly penitent heart the way to the very throne of Heaven is open, and that the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin. If I regretted aught, it was that I must die without another kind of confession—the confessing my faith openly before men. I have longed to do so, but I shame to say it—I have been afraid. But now I fear no longer."

I was utterly dumbfounded, and could not speak a word.

"Shall I tell you the whole?" she asked, presently. "Or are you too much shocked to hear more? You will not cast me off, will you, Rosamond?"

"Never!" said I, finding my voice at last. "But, dearest Amice, consider. Think of your fair fame—of Mother Gertrude and dear Mother Superior!"

"I have thought of all," she answered; "yea, many times overt and though I grieve to grieve them, yet I must needs speak. I have denied Him before men too long already: I must needs confess Him before I die, come what may. Give me some cordial, Rosamond. I must keep myself up till to-morrow, at least."

I gave her the cordial, and after a little rest, she began once more:

"Rosamond, do you remember the day we were dusting the chairs in the Queen's room, and you showed me one, the velvet whereof was spotted with small spots, as of drops of water? Mother Gertrude sent you to the wardrobe just then."

"I remember it well," I answered; "and that looking from the window I saw you reading some ragged leaves which you put into your bosom. I meant to ask what they were, but in the multitude of business, I forgot."

"Exactly so!" said Amice. "I was dusting the chair, and on taking up the cushion, which I found to be moveable, there fell out these leaves. I took them up to read them, thinking they might throw some light on the poor lady's history, but I had read little when I knew what I had found—something I had long desired to see. It was a written copy of the Gospel of St. John, done into English. Doubtless the poor prisoner had managed to bring it with her, and had found a convenient hiding-place for her treasure in this chair, which she had watered with her tears."

"I had read but a few words when I was interrupted; but those words were engraven on my mind as with a pen of steel. They were these: 'God so loved the world that he gave his only son for the intent that none that believe in him should perish, but should have everlasting life. For God sent not his son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through him might be saved.'"

"Rosamond, I was as a man walking through desolate moors and among quaking bogs and thorny thickets, to whom a flash of light from Heaven showed for one moment the right and safe road. It was but a glimpse. I had no more time to read then, nor for some hours after; but that night, in recreation, I did find time for a few more verses. By the first peep of light next morning I was up and at my window, and thenceforth the morning star seldom found me sleeping. I placed the book of the Gospel inside my prayer-book, for better concealment, but after I had once read it through, and for fear it might be taken from me, I learned it all off by heart."

"I remember how we used to smile at your early rising," said I; "we little thought what you were about."

"This went on for a while," continued Amice, (I set down her own words as near as I can remember them): "and then I came near a discovery. You know how light of foot was Mistress Anne. Well, one day, when I had ventured, as I seldom did, to take out my book while I was waiting in the Queen's anteroom, she came behind me and peeped over my shoulder, and before I could hinder, snatched the leaves from my hand. I thought then that all was lost; but after teasing me awhile in her childish fashion, she gave me back my treasure, and said she would get me a better book than that, even the whole New Testament, done into fair English by one Master Tyndale."

"But mind!" she added, "I don't stand sponsor for all his notions, and I wont be answerable for the consequences to yourself. This much I may say. 'Twas a very learned and good man gave me the book, and he says 'tis true to the original Greek, out of which it was translated by Master Tyndale."

"And have you read it?" I asked her.

"Not I," says she, "save only a chapter, here and there; but let me tell you, Mistress Amice, if this book gains ground, as 'tis like to do, your priests and nuns and mitred abbots will fly away like ghosts and owls before the sunrising. Nay, unless some I know are the more mistaken, the cock has crowed already."

"That very night she gave me the book, and before she left, she added another which was sent her from London, namely Master Tyndale's exposition of certain passages. But I cared not so much for that, as for the other. Then came the sickness, when the discipline of the house being so much relaxed, I had more time to read and study and compare. Rosamond, how amazed was I to find that there is in the New Testament no single hint of any worship being paid to our Lord's mother—nay, our Lord Himself saying, that those who did His Father's will, were even to Him as His own mother."

"'Tis not the right Gospel," said I. "Why Amice, only think how our Lady is honored throughout all Christendom. Depend upon it, you have been deceived."

"Who would dare to carry out such a deception?" said she. "Every learned man in Christendom would be against him."

I cannot now write down all she said, as how she had found the teaching of our Lord so much more simple and plain, than those in the lives of the saints—how Himself had declared that whosoever did but believe on Him, had already everlasting life—how Christ being already offered for sin, there was no more sacrifice, but all was perfected in Him; and much more which I did not, and do not yet understand. But she ended by saying, that she could no longer keep silence, since the Lord had commanded all to confess Him before men, and had declared that He would deny all who did not thus confess Him.

"I cannot die with a lie on my lips," she said. "I dare not thus go into the presence of my God, where I must soon stand; for God doth hate lying above measure, inasmuch as He hath declared that all liars shall have their part in the second death. Besides, were it not utterly base to deny Him, who hath done and will do so much for me?"

I used many arguments with her, but could prevail nothing, even when I spoke of Mother Gertrude and her sorrow, at which Amice wept so vehemently, that I was alarmed; but when she was again composed, she said she had thought of that many times, and with many prayers and tears, but yet she could see her duty in no other way.

Oh, I cannot tell all she said. I would I could remember and set down every word, but much has gone from me. She bade me take comfort concerning her, when she was gone, saying that nothing they could do would work her any real injury. She told me how happy her new faith had made her, despite many perplexities concerning her duty—how at the last she had seen her way clear, and what peace she had felt in the thought that her free salvation had been provided for in Christ, and she had but to believe, and be saved.

"What, even if you were wicked?" said I.

"Don't you see, dear Rosamond, that one who really believed in our Lord could not be wicked? If he really and truly believed that the Lord died for him, he would desire to do what that Lord commanded, and to be like Him. He would know that Christ makes keeping His commands the very test of faith and love, even as He saith: 'He that hath my commands and keepeth them, He it is that loveth me.'"

I asked what she had done with her Testament, and she told me she had given it to Magdalen Jewell, knowing that she should need it no longer.

"There are many things therein which I don't understand, but they will soon be made plain," said she. "Is it not almost morning, Rosamond? Draw the curtain and see."

I did so. Lo the dawn was stealing on, and in the east shone, glorious to see, the morning star.

"There is the emblem of my Lord!" said Amice, clasping her hands; "There is the bright and morning star. It is the last dawning I shall see on earth! To-morrow. Rosamond, and whenever you think of me, remember that I am resting where there is no need of sun or moon: 'For the brightness of God did lighten it, and the Lamb was the light of it.' 'They shall hunger no more neither thirst any more, neither shall the sun light on them nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the seat shall feed them and shall lead them unto fountains of living waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.'"

"Is that out of the Scripture?" I ventured to ask.

"Aye, that and many more precious promises. Rosamond, you are far more of a scholar than I. If you have a chance, do not you neglect to study the Scripture for yourself. And now farewell, best, dearest friend, for I hear the Sister going to ring the bell, and Mother Gertrude will soon be here."

Oh, that last embrace! I dare not dwell upon it! It was too much for Amice, who fell back fainting. I called Mother Gertrude, who was already astir, and together we revived her. Then Mother Gertrude, seeing, I suppose, by my looks, how much I was overcome, gave me a composing drink and sent me to bed. I was long in falling asleep, but I did at last, and when I waked all was over. I heard afterward how it was. Seeing that Amice was clearly near her end, the Sisters were assembled in her room, as usual, for the last rite.

Then she spoke with a clear and plain voice, declaring that having had her mind enlightened by Holy Scripture, and as she believed also by light from on high, she did utterly contemn and repudiate all worship and honor of images and pictures, all prayers to our Lady and the Saints, and all trust whatever for salvation in forms and ceremonies, in penances, indulgences, or any such toys; placing her hopes of salvation upon Christ alone. Having said which, (but mentioning naught of Magdalen Jewell's escape,) she repeated in a clear voice and with (as Sister Placida told me,) a countenance more like a beatified Saint than a dying heretic, these words from the Psalm: "Into thy hands I commend my spirit, for thou hast redeemed me, O Lord, thou God of truth."

And then sinking back and clasping her hands, she yielded up the ghost.

'Twas a terrible shock and surprise to all, for Amice had been devout from a child, using many prayers, and as much of watching and fasting as her superiors would permit; and nobody, not even Sister Catherine, doubted that she had a true vocation.

Mother Gertrude fainted on the spot, and revived only to fall into fits, to which, it seems, she was formerly subject. All the Sisters fled from the room, and the poor body lay unwatched and uncared for till night, when it was hastily and with little ceremony buried in the far corner of the cemetery, by the side of that poor secluded lady, who had, as it were, left this legacy of trouble behind her.

Sister Placida (she is Mother Placida now, having been put in the place of dear Mother Gertrude, who is far too feeble to perform any duty,) Sister Placida, I say, told me these things when I was recovering from my long illness. She professed to be very hard and severe toward the poor thing, but I could see her heart yearned over her, and indeed she ended by a great burst of weeping, and declaring that she would never cease to pray for the soul of Amice Crocker, adding that the prayers, if they did no good, could do no harm, and might serve some other poor soul in Purgatory.

I had just waked from my long and heavy sleep, and was striving to collect my thoughts and calm my throbbing head, when Sister Catherine burst in on me with the news that Amice was gone; and after recounting the manner of her death, added that now one might see what came of favoritism and book-learning, and court preferment; and thanking the Saints, as usual, for her lowly station and for the grace of humility which they had vouchsafed to obtain for her. She added, that as the bosom friend and confident of that lost heretic, I should doubtless be severely dealt by, and adjured me to make a full confession and recantation, as in that case I might be let off with perpetual imprisonment.

Whether any such purposes were entertained against me I know not, but I do not greatly believe it; at any rate, they were not carried out; for that very hour I was taken with an ague chill, which turned to a long and low fever, lasting I know not how many weeks, during which I lay mostly in a low, muttering delirium, knowing nobody, and talking, when I could be understood, only of my childish life at home, and my lessons with my mother and Master Ellenwood. Even I after the fever left me, I was as weak as any babe, for a long time, and as I had been removed from my usual place and put in a cell opening from Mother Superior's part of the house, where I saw nobody but herself, Mother Placida and Sister Bonaventure, who brought my food, I heard nothing of what was going on in the house.

I was very much better, and able to sit up some hours and work a little, when, one day, I was aware of a somewhat unusual bustle in the house, and by-and-by Mother Superior and Mother Placida came to me.

"The Bishop is here, and desires you may be brought before him," said Mother Superior. She spoke calmly, as usual, but I saw that she was disturbed and flurried. They helped me to dress, and then supporting me each by an arm, they led me into Mother Superior's private room, where the Reverend Prelate sat in her great chair, with Father Fabian standing behind him.

His Lordship, though very grave, was kind and fatherly, as when I had seen him before. He would have me sit, after I had knelt to him on entering, and then before Father Fabian and the two Mothers he began questioning me about Amice. Had I ever suspected her of any leaning toward heresy? Had we ever talked on the subject? Did I know what books she had had, and how she had gained them?

At the answer to this last question, "that I believed she had found a part at least of what she had, concealed in a chair in the Queen's room," I saw the Bishop and Father Fabian look on each other. Then he asked me whether I had been intimate with Mrs. Bullen; to which I said decidedly no! That I did not like her, nor she me, and we kept apart as much as possible.

"That is well!" said he. "The woman is a pest, and will be a greater." Then he asked me of my own opinions, to which I answered that I had never thought of believing save as I had been taught, which was quite true at that time, whatever may be the case now. I believe I satisfied him at last, for he kindly gave me his blessing, and said there was no need of my being secluded longer—which by the way was the first time I had known I was secluded at all. But he gave me many sharp and solemn cautions about meddling with matters too high for me, which certainly I had no mind to do at that time, being mortally tired, and wanting nothing so much as to get back to bed.

At last I was dismissed, and Mother Placida kissed me, even with tears, and said how glad she was all was well, and farther relieved her heart by bringing me for dinner twice as much of all sorts of nice things as I could eat, and a cup of her fragrant rose cordial, which I know she treasures as if it were a draught from the water of life.

When I got about the house again—which was not for some days—I found many, and some sad changes. Poor Mother Gertrude sat in the sun, spinning of fine thread, and looking far more aged and feeble even than Mother Mary Monica. She seemed hardly to know me at first, and when she did, was so troubled and distressed that I hardly could pacify her. I found a stranger holding the place of Mother Assistant, a hard-looking woman, with sharp black eyes, which seemed to see everything at once. Sister Clare told me she was a nun from the house at Exeter, and added that nobody liked her except Sister Catherine, who was very great with her.

I could see that the reins were tightened up in every way. More work was done, and the hours of prayer and silence were multiplied. Sister Clare also told me that the elder nuns were much dissatisfied with having a stranger put over them; and that after Amice's death, the whole household had kept a nine days' fast and devotion, to expiate the sin of having harbored an apostate. But we had little talk together; for Mother Assistant encountering us bade us remember the rule of particular friendships, and sent Sister Catherine to join us, which of course put an end to all conversation but her own. She had much to say about the improvements in the family, and as to how it would be impossible in future for any one to fall into such disorders as had obtained among the younger members of the family.

I escaped as soon as I could, and went away by myself to the corner where poor Amice lay buried. I could not be sure of the exact place, for the ground was levelled flat and made bare for some distance. Somebody had sowed grass seed, which was already beginning to come up; and seeing many lily of the valley roots lying about on the grass, I ventured to replace them in the soil, where I hope they are now blooming.

For a good many days after I got up, I was very feeble, and fit for none but the lightest work. I could not even embroider, because mine eyes were weak; so I fell back upon making of cherry-tree and strawberry-nets against summer; and on my knitting, which I found a great resource. Also I took to learning by heart such Psalms as I did not know, and whole chapters of "The Imitation of Christ," and found great comfort therein.

'Twas drawing toward Christmas-tide, and very warm and mild for the season. I was gathering such late flowers as still bloomed in sheltered spots, to decorate the shrine in the Lady Chapel, when Mother Placida came to tell me that some one had come to see me, and I was to go to Mother Superior's parlor without delay. A little thing sufficed to disturb me in those days; and I was already trembling and flurried, when I entered the parlor. The first person I saw was my father, looking much better in health and spirits than when I saw him last, and with him a fine, handsome lady.

Mother Superior was present behind the grating, and looked strangely disturbed and troubled. My father raised me in his arms and kissed me tenderly, and then turning to the lady, he said:

"This is my daughter Rosamond, Julia. Rosamond, this lady is my wife and your mother, to whom I trust you will pay all childly duty and courtesy."

It could but have been something of a shock to me to know that my father was married again. Still if I had had warning and a little time to consider the matter, I trust I should not have been wanting in my duty to my honored father and his wife. As it was, I am ashamed to say that after staring at the lady for a moment, I dropped in a dead faint at her feet.

When I began to revive, I felt the fresh air blowing on my face, and heard the rustle of leaves above me, but a leaden weight seemed to press down my eyelids, so that I could not open them. Kind hands were busy about me, and I presently heard a decided but clear and cheery voice say, "She is coming to herself!"

"I will leave you together!" said Mother Superior's voice, still sounding as in a dream. Then came a warm hand laid on mine and a kiss pressed on my forehead. At last I opened mine eyes. They fell on a very pleasant object—a lady of about my own mother's age, but perhaps handsomer, though in a different way—somewhat dark, with a beautiful color, bright brown eyes and well-marked eyebrows—the whole visage bearing the marks of a keen, clear-sighted but withal kindly disposition. The dress was rich, but sober and matronly. I looked long and as it were in a kind of bewilderment, till with a kindly smile, "Well, child, take a good look at me!" she said. "Do I look like a monster, or the cruel step-dames in the ballads?"

"No indeed, Madam!" I answered, feeling all the blood rush to my face in a flood. "I am sure you look like a good-natured gentlewoman. It was only that I was so taken by surprise, not knowing or thinking of any such thing."

"I see—I see!" she interrupted. "Did you not know, then? Your father sent letters more than two weeks before us."

"I have heard nothing of them," I answered.

"Poor child, no wonder you were taken aback!" said my step-dame. "Well, Rosamond, here I am, as you see. I trust to be able to make your father a good wife, and to supply to you in some degree the place of the mother you have lost. I cannot ask you to give me all at once the affection which a child owes her mother. That would be out of all reason. What I do ask is that you will not judge me beforehand, nor conclude that I must needs be a tyrant because I am a step-dame, but use your own eyes and judgment and persuade your brother to do the same. Your mother, so far as I have learned, was a saint. I am no saint, but a faulty woman—yet I trust I am a Christian woman, and one who means to do her duty."

What could I say to this, but that I would strive to do my part, and be a dutiful and loving child to her. With that I kissed her hand, and she my cheek, and we went to find my father, whom we found walking the parlor in evident perturbation, which, however, seemed to clear up as we entered.

"Why, that's well," said he; then changing his tone, "but what have they been doing to you, child? Why, you are but the ghost of yourself!"

"I have been very ill, dear father," I answered. "I have had a long fever which lasted many weeks, and from which nobody thought I would rise again."

"And why was I not apprised thereof? You are no nun as yet, I trow, to be cut off from your family and natural friends. What say you, my Lady? Shall we take this faded rose of ours home, and see if it will not revive in its native soil?"

"Indeed, I think 'twould be a wise move," answered my Lady. "Change of air is always reckoned good in these cases, and, besides, I want Rosamond to help me settle myself in my new home. What says she? Sweetheart, would you like to go with us to Corby End?"

Oh, how my heart leaped at the thought of seeing home once more! I could not speak, but I kissed my father's hand.

"Her face says yes," says my step-dame, smiling.

"And are you then so ready to leave old friends for new, Rosamond?" said Mother Superior, reproachfully. "Your mother who gave you to this holy house would hardly have approved such readiness to leave it."

I thought this, I must needs say, an ill-judged speech, and I saw my step-dame's cheek flush, though she said not a word. My father, however, answered somewhat hotly, as is his wont when chafed in his humor:

"My daughter, Madam, is not yet professed, and is therefore under the rule of her father."

I saw Mother Superior's eye kindle, for she too hath a spark of temper, and I dreaded some unpleasant debate, but my step-dame interposed, and by I know not what gentle and honeyed words of courtesy, she managed to avert the storm. She urged my evidently failing health, her own want of my assistance, and the need of my seeing somewhat of the world before making my profession; and finally, I hardly know how, 'twas settled that I should go home for a while.

I could have sung for joy. True, I felt it would be a trial for me to see a strange lady, be she ever so well conditioned, in my dear mother's place, and ruling where she ruled; and I had also some fears as to how Harry would take the change, and I foresaw trouble with Mrs. Prudence. But all was swallowed up in the overwhelming joy of going home. Ever since Amice died, the house hath seemed to me like a prison, as if I had no space to move and no air to breathe.

We were to leave that afternoon and travel by short stages, as my weakness would permit. Before I left, I had a long audience with Mother Superior, who mourned over me as over a tender lamb going forth in the midst of wolves. She gave me much council as to how I should behave—how I should seclude myself as far as possible from all worldly society, specially men's society, and, above all, I should keep aloof from my cousin if any chance threw him in my way. I was to remember always that I was the same as a vowed and cloistered nun, and to observe always the rules of my Heavenly Bridegroom's house, recollecting the examples of those saints who had set at naught father and mother, friends and children, for the sake of a religious life; and she told me of a lady, formerly a nun in this house, who being a widow with three children, left them to whoever would care for them, and betook herself to the convent; and when the eldest son, a lad of some twelve years, threw himself across the threshold of the door with tears and besought her not to leave them, she just stepped over his prostrate body and went her way.

Now, I had my own thoughts on this matter. I thought the woman a horrid wretch, nor did I believe Heaven would smile on such an unnatural mother. Moreover, it seemed to me, that in my father's house, I should properly be under his rule, and that of my step-dame, his Lady. But I have learned one thing, at least, in my convent education, namely, to hear all and say nothing; and indeed I was grieved to part with her who hath been a second mother to me. So I strove to content her in all things, and she bade me farewell with many tears and blessings. 'Twas the same with all the mothers and sisters, save the new Mother Assistant and Sister Catherine. These two take more on themselves all the time, and I am much mistaken if Mother Superior does not sometime show them that she is a Vernon, and mistress in her own house to boot.

How delightful it was, despite my weakness, to find myself once more on horseback, behind my father, breathing the free air of the moor, and seeing the wide world, not shut in by high stone walls and waving trees—meeting the kindly glances and greetings of the serving-men, feeling myself drawing nearer home with every step, and recognizing one familiar tree and hill after another.

We stopped one night at the house of my Lady Gardener, who is a kinswoman of ours. Here my step-dame would have me go at once to bed, and I was glad to do so, for I was very tired, being weak and unused to the motion of a horse for so long. Lady Gardener was full of some nostrum which she had got from a travelling friar, and which was to cure everything in the world; but my step-dame staved off the dose, I don't know how, and that for a wonder, without offending our hostess; persuading her that some of her excellent junkets and cream, with a cup of wine whey, would be far better for me.

"'Tis not dosing you want, sweetheart!" said my step-dame, as she came to see me eat my supper. "You are young, and ought to be able to get well of yourself. Besides, I have no fancy for friar's nostrums and medicines, whereof I know nothing."

In all of which I quite agreed with her.

I was much better next day, and able to renew my journey with good courage; and now I found I had great news to hear, as namely, that the proud Cardinal was out of favor, and like to be wholly disgraced; and what struck me even more, that his Majesty had, after all this time, waked up to the fact that he had married his brother's widow—that his conscience—Heaven save the mark!—was disquieted thereat, and that he was moving Heaven and earth, and perhaps, as my step-dame said, some other place for a divorce. My Lady was wholly on the Queen's side, and said some very sharp things.

"But if his Majesty's conscience be engaged?" said my father.

"Oh, his conscience—his conscience would have done better, methinks, to have slept altogether, since it had slumbered till the Queen grew an old woman. His conscience was easy enough till Mistress Bullen came from France."

And here she seemed to remember my presence, for she said no more. For mine own part her words seemed to throw light on many things, and specially on the business of the diamond ring which had moved the Queen so strangely.

Doubtless this was the grief which weighed so heavy on the poor lady's heart, and for which she had sought comfort in vain at the shrine of St. Ethelburga.

Well, we reached home in safety, and were soon settled down in an orderly way of living, my Lady seeming somehow to establish her sway perfectly, with very little trouble or contention. I think she is one of those people born to rule, to whom government comes easy.

I saw but little of the process, being taken down with a new access of my fever, which lasted two or three weeks. Harry told me afterward she had no trouble with anybody but Prudence and Alice. Alice thought her dignity as a matron, and the prospects of the baby were injured, by my father's presuming to take a second wife. She thought he ought to remain single for the sake of his children; though I don't think she ever thought of remaining single for his sake. However, she thinks that is different, and perhaps it may be, a little.

Harry is thoroughly pleased, and when I hear from him how matters went on—how Prue tyrannized, and the maids rebelled, and how uncomfortable the whole household was made, especially my father, I do not wonder. My Lady being just what she is, I can honestly say, I am heartily glad of her coming among us, though I can't but speculate what it might be if my father had fancied a different kind of woman—somebody like Sister Catherine, for instance.

Master Ellenwood was away when we came home, on a visit to his sisters in Bristol; but he returned just when I was getting about, and in time for the Christmas holidays. I could see that he was shocked at first. He worshipped my dear mother as a kind of saint, and though they did not agree on some matters—in my spending so much time on fine needlework, for instance, when he would fain have kept me at my Latin—yet they never had a word of disagreement, and they used to have many conferences on religious and spiritual matters. But he quite agreed with Harry and me that the change was a good one for my father and the rest of the household, and he and my Lady were presently good friends.

My step-dame is quite in favor of my taking up my lessons again when my health is once more established. She says she has known many learned ladies who were none the worse housekeepers and managers for that, and she instanced my young Lady Latymer, daughter of Sir Thomas Parr, whose father gave her a most excellent education, even to having her taught the Greek tongue. This lady is my step-dame's great friend, and quite a pattern in the court for her piety and discretion. My Lady says she hopes I may some day make her acquaintance.

[So I did; but before that time came she had passed through many strange mutations of fortune, having become first a widow, then a Queen, then a widow again, and at last a most unhappy wife, when she married Sir Thomas Seymor, Lord High Admiral, and died in child-bed not long after. She wrote many excellent pieces, both in prose and verse, two of which, "The Complaint of a Penitent Sinner," and "Prayers and Meditations," I had a present from this godly and afflicted lady's own hand.]

I was about again in time to witness the Christmas revels, though not to take any great part in them. Alice and her husband were here with their boy, and I think my Lady hath quite won Alice's heart by her attention to the brat, which took to her wonderfully. I saw my Lady's eyes soften and fill with tears as she held the child in her arms and looked on its little waxen face.

"Alice, my child, God hath given you a great treasure!" said she, and presently more softly, "Methinks fathers and mothers should have a greater and deeper sense of God's love toward his fallen creatures than any one else. How much must you love any one before you could give the life of this babe for him?"

I don't think this remark struck Alice so much as it did me, but I pondered on it many times afterward. I had often been reminded of our Lady when I had seen a mother and babe, but it had never occurred to me to think so much of God's love. When I repeated the saying to Master Ellenwood, he said:

"Your new mother is a most precious lady, Mistress Rosamond. I believe she will be a blessing to this house."

Since the Christmas revels, our time has passed quietly enough. I have had two or three attacks of my fever, but not so severe, and seem gradually getting the better of it. Prudence would fain keep me shut in my chamber, on the lowest diet, and the strongest physic, because she says it stands to reason that a fever needs bringing down. But to this my Lady will by no means agree. She will have me eat heartily, specially of cream, and take no medicine but a certain aromatic and bitter cordial, which certainly does strengthen me wonderfully.

I have heard not a word from the convent since I left, and my father will by no means hear of my going back at present. I am glad of it, for I am very happy at home, and after what has passed, it does not seem as though I could ever breathe under that roof again. This home life is so sweet! I do not see how any vocation can be higher than that of a wife and mother, blessing and profiting all about her, as certainly my Lady does. But all homes are not like mine, I know very well—and then that promise!

CHAPTER XXII.

April 23.        

OUR people have come home, with a fine budget of news, to be sure. First the Pope hath sent a Cardinal named Campeggio, or some such name, to join with Cardinal Wolsey, in a commission to try the lawfulness of the King's marriage with the Queen, and there is to be a court held for that purpose. Then the Cardinal's favor with the court is said to be decidedly waning, while that of Mrs. Anne Bullen is constantly growing. She is now made Marchioness of Pembroke, forsooth, and her levees are attended by the nobles of the court, as if she were already queen; and nobody has any doubt that she will be made queen if the marriage with her Grace can be dissolved. The viper! I remember well the mocking tone in which she besought her Grace not to betray her to the King! My poor, dear mistress! No wonder she brought her troubles to the shrine of St. Ethelburga, where I fear, however, she found little comfort.

I will never believe that was the true book of the Gospel which Mistress Anne gave Amice. It was some work of the devil, meant to deceive and destroy souls. And yet, when I recall that last night with my friend, can I think all that courage, and peace, and assurance, and triumphant joy was the work of the devil? And if so, who is safe? And where is Amice now? I dare not think of it! Whichever way I turn all is confusion, doubt and dread!

The last piece of news is, that my Lord is coming home next week, and of course Richard with him. It seems a long, and weary journey for my Lady, with her young son, and the roads are terribly unsafe. They must be well on their way now. I must say an additional Hail Mary every day for their safe arrival. It would be such a terrible misfortune if any harm should happen to my Lady and her boy.

I don't exactly know what I am to do about meeting Dick. Doubtless he will be in and out with Harry as usual, and of course I must meet him. I have no excuse now for keeping my chamber, and if I try to seclude myself, as Mother Superior desired, I shall annoy my father and mother, cause a break in the family, and make everybody uncomfortable. I don't quite like to speak to my mother about it. It might give her a false notion that there have been really some love passages between me and Dick, and make her think it a serious matter, which it is not.

Besides, I know just what she would say. She does not like to think or speak of my being a nun, and indeed I think my father is coming to mislike the notion. I believe I will let matters take their course. Perhaps if Dick has grown the fine court Squire that Mistress Bullen said, he will not care to pay me any attention. I do not believe it any the more for her saying so.

The poor Queen! My heart aches to think of her sitting alone and forlorn, while her husband goes junketting about with Mistress Anne. His conscience, forsooth! Methinks a retreat—say among the monks of La Trappe for him, and the Poor Clares, or the silent Carmelites for her, would be good for both of them. If I had the ordering of their haircloth and parched pease, methinks both would be of the hardest. Father says it is so with every one in London. The women are all for the Queen, and the men take the part of the King, or Mistress Bullen.

This morning the men went to Biddeford with the wagons, to bring up some goods of my father's and mother's, which have been sent round by sea, from London. My father and Harry went with them, to see all safe, and hearing that there was a great chest of books among the things, Master Ellenwood must needs go too. I was standing at the door watching to see the last of them, when my stepmother came to me.

"Rosamond!" said she, after she had asked after my health, and found that I was feeling as well as usual. "There is a certain thing, which needs to be done, and this day of your father's absence is a good time to undertake it; but I do not wish to move in the matter, unless you feel able to help me. I mean the opening, airing, and ordering of your mother's room and clothes. They must needs be attended to, or the moths and damp will ruin them. Moreover, Alice thinks that she should have her share of the clothes and jewels, and maybe she is right."

(I forgot to say, in the right place, that my step-dame had refused to occupy my mother's private apartment, but had chosen one on the other side of the house, where she had her dressing room, and her private closet, in which she spent an hour every morning.)

I was moved at first, which my step-dame saw.

"I know it will be hard for you, my child," said she, "but think what your mother would wish in the matter."

"It must be done, of course," said I, recovering myself, "and I will help you. Dear Madam, how kind you are to me."

"And why should I not be kind, sweetheart?" she asked me, smiling. "You are my dear home daughter, and it would sure be an unnatural mother who did not love her child."

"And you are my dear mother," I whispered, kissing her hand, whereat she embraced me tenderly, and we went together to open my mother's room.

All was just as it was left the day of her funeral; even the flowers I had gathered, lay dried, and cobwebbed on her toilet-table.

"And where does this door lead?" asked my lady, after we had unbarred the shutters, and opened the windows.

"That was my mother's closet," I answered, "where she used to spend many hours, specially when my father was away. I suppose we had better open and air that also."

And I found the key where I knew she kept it, in a box on the chimney. We opened the door of the little turret room, not without difficulty, for the lock was rusted and moved stiffly, but open it we did at last. It was but a small place. There was an altar and crucifix, of course, and before them on the floor lay a rough hard mat, rough enough of itself, and strewed with sharp flints to make it the harder. On the step lay a discipline of knotted cords, mingled with wire, and stained here and there, as if by blood. I had never thought of my dear mother as using such penances, and my blood ran cold at the sight of these things. I glanced at my step-dame, and saw her face full of indignation and pity.

"Woe unto them, for they have made sorrowful the souls of the righteous, whom God hath not made sorrowful!" she murmured, as if she had forgotten my presence. "Woe to the false shepherds who oppress the sheep! 'Lord, how long, how long shall the ungodly triumph?'" Then seeming to remember me—"Rosamond, we will leave these things as they are, for the present, at least. Let the moles and bats prey on them, if they will. The day may come, when we will clear them away."

I saw she was greatly moved, as was I myself, but I could hardly understand her expression. It seemed to be anger, not at my mother, but for her sake. She recovered herself presently, locked the door and gave me the key, bidding me keep it carefully. Then we summoned Prudence and one of the maids, and my Lady had all the hangings taken down and brushed, the floors scrubbed and polished anew, all the linen and garments taken from the drawers and chests, shaken and refolded, with plenty of rose leaves and lavender, and sweet woodroofe, and all put in the nicest order.

"I suppose my new Madam means to take all my dear sainted lady's clothes to herself, as she has taken all the rest," grumbled Prue, as my Lady left us to seek some essence of roses, which she said some one had brought her from Turkey. "I have ever looked for such a move, but I did not expect to see you, Mistress Rosamond, abetting her in doing dishonor to your dear dead mother's memory."

Before I had time to answer, my Lady returned with two little chrystal and gilded glasses, which, though tightly closed with glass and vellum, exhaled a most delicious perfume, as if they held the very soul of the summer roses.

"You say your mother loved roses?" she said, after I had admired them. "We will lay one of these in her drawers, and you shall have the other. And now tell me, Rosamond, would you like to have this room for your own? I have spoken on the matter to your father, and he says you may, if you choose."

I could not help casting a glance of triumph at Prue. To my surprise and vexation she answered sharply, before I had time to speak:

"Mistress Rosamond is going to be a nun, and pray for her mother's soul in the convent, instead of flaunting in the world. She will want no room in this house, since she is to live in the house of God."

My Lady gazed steadily at Prudence for a moment, till the woman's sharp eyes fell before hers. Then she said very gravely, and even gently, as she might have checked a wayward child:

"Methinks you forget yourself, strangely."

"I beg your pardon, Madam," answered Prue, sullenly, and as if the words had been as it were forced from her.

"Pardon is granted for this time," answered Lady Corbet, with quiet dignity: "but beware that such a thing does not happen again. I have borne much from you for the sake of your former mistress; but the time may come when I shall forbear no longer."

Prue choked and swallowed, but remained silent, and my step-dame repeated her question to me, adding: "you see, my child, the house is not large, and with Alice and her babe coming home as often as we hope she may, and the need of entertaining your father's friends in the country, we can scarce afford to keep this room closed up. Still we will make shift to do so, if the using thereof will grieve you."

I saw there was reason in what she said, and though in truth I would rather have kept my mother's room closed, I told my Lady with thanks that I would take it for my own, and give up mine to be a guest chamber instead. No sooner had my Lady left the room, than Prudence burst forth:

"So this is my reward for my long years of faithful service—yea, of slavery in this house—to be kicked out like a dog—to be insulted in my sainted Lady's own room—the very room you were born in, Mistress Rosamond; and more's the pity, I say, if you are to disobey your mother's commands and bring the guilt of sacrilege on this house a second time! Alack, alack! That ever I should have lived to see a step-dame set over this house, to tyrannize over my Lady's children and faithful servants, and turn the house upside down without any reason than her own will, forsooth!"

"How can you say that, Prue?" I asked, as she stopped for lack of breath. "Did not my Lady give her reasons for the change, and were they not wise enough? I am sure I thought so."

"Yes—she and her reasons;" returned Prue. "I think I see my old Lady condescending to reason, as you call it, with a child or servant. These are new times indeed, when a young lady is to be reasoned with, forsooth. In my day they were taught to obey."

I could not help laughing. "O Prue, Prue! What think you my mother would have said, if you had taken up her words as you did my Lady's this morning? And how easily you eat your own words. First you rail at my Lady for turning the house upside down, at her own will, and then for condescending to render a reason for her doings. Which is right?"

"And you, Mistress Rosamond, that was as good as a veiled nun," pursued the old woman, paying no heed to my words. "She must needs drag you from your convent into the world again, and give you cordials and wind, and what not, while you were ill, as if every one did not know that a fever ought to be starved. Doubtless the next thing you will be fitted with a bridegroom, and flaunting in silks and satins—in the court itself maybe, to catch the eye of the King."

"And then you will wish to go and keep house for me, as you did for Alice," said I; "but I don't think I shall want you, unless you learn to be better natured, any more than she did."

Whereat Prudence began noisily to weep, and to exclaim, "that ever she had lived to see the day," and so on, till my Lady coming back, she rushed away to her own dominions.

"Was that woman a favorite with your mother, Rosamond?" asked my Lady, after we had settled that I should remove immediately to my new quarters.

"She was so, though I could never understand why," I answered; "but I think she blinded my mother to her faults by affecting an excessive devotion."

"Maybe so," said my Lady. "For myself I like her not. She seems to me both false and cruel—two faults I cannot abide. But she is an old servant of the house, and we will have patience with her. And now, sweetheart, I have another matter to mention to you, by your father's desire. But you are standing too long, and we shall have the ague coming back upon us, if we let you get over busy. Come you to my room and rest."

My Lady would have me sit down in the great cushioned chair, and sent her own maid for some cream and bread for me. Then she opened her matter, which was this, that my father desired I would leave off the plain black stuff robe and thick coif, veil and pinners I had worn ever since I came home, and dress like other young ladies of my degree. I never was more surprised in my life, for when I have been at home before, my father has seemed to wish to keep the veil always before mine eyes, as it were.

"Your father does not lay his commands on you, in this matter," said my step-dame. "He does not wish to force your inclination, but he says you would do him a pleasure if you would attire yourself according to your rank. Take time and think about it. Your father will not be at home till to-morrow evening."

That afternoon the change was accomplished, and I lay down to sleep in my dear mother's room and bed. Just as I was undressing, who should look in upon me, but Prudence herself.

"So you are here!" said she, with an ominously solemn face. "You are not wanting in courage, that must needs be said of you. I have not slighted my dead Lady's commands, nor done despite to her memory, nor broken my convent vows, and yet I would not pass a night here for all my Lady's jewels. I hope all may be well with you in the morning, that's all."

"And so do I!" I answered. "Why not?"

"And suppose you are waked in the night by the touch of a cold hand, and should see your mother's ghost, surrounded by the flames of purgatory or worse, and should hear her voice reproaching you for your breach of your vows! Or suppose you should see the demon which haunts yon woods—which carried off the Lady Elgitha from her lover, and—"

"Or suppose you should shut the door and mind your own business!" said I, all the more vexed because I was a little scared. "In the first place, I have broken no vows, because I have made none. If my dear mother should come to visit me, it would be to bless, or at worst to reprove, and not to curse; and she would come surrounded, not by flames of purgatory, but by airs from Paradise, and I should rejoice to see her. And as for the demon out yonder, he has no power save over those who venture into his domains after nightfall, nor then, unless they go on a bad errand. Methinks you were best to depart before my Lady comes to see me in bed," (as she has always done since my illness.)

Prue took the hint, and was departing, when she nearly ran over my Lady.

"What are you doing here?" says my Lady, not without some sharpness.

"If it please you, Madam, I meant no offence!" said Prudence, demurely. "I came but to see that Mistress Rosamond had a night light, in case anything should happen before morning;" and casting a parting glance full of anger at us both, she courtesied and departed.

"Was that really her errand?" asked my Lady.

"Hardly, I think," said I. "I believe she only came to scare me, if she could;" and then I recounted what she had said. My Lady seemed much moved.

"Aye, that is always the way—flames, and devils, and all kinds of things, to scare the little ones whom He bade come to himself," she murmured, as if to herself; then to me, "Dear child, be not you scared by these fables. Think not of your mother as tormented in flames of purgatory, or worse, because she married a worthy man and lived and died a faithful Christian wife and mother. Believe as I do, that they who put their trust in the Lord shall never taste the bitterness of death, but that being absent from the body they are at home with the Lord. 'They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb shall lead them to fountains of living water, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.'"

I had heard these words before, from one who found comfort in them when she was void of all human consolation, and they came to me like an echo of her voice.

"I do not fear, dear Madam!" I answered her, and then I told her how I had before been comforted concerning my mother in my night watch. After she had bade me good-night, with a kiss and a blessing, I said my prayers once more, repeated the ninety-first Psalm, and lay down to rest. I wont deny that I felt a little shiver of fear when I woke once in the night and saw the waning moon shining in at the casement, and heard the mournful calling of the sea, and the sighing of the wind in the trees, while an owl whooped dismally in the wood; but I remembered my Psalm, said my prayers, and falling asleep, did not wake till dawn.

Touching this change of dress—I have been considering the matter, and it does seem to me as if I ought to pleasure my father therein. I can honestly say the change will be no pleasure to me. I was never fond of dress. I care not the trouble of it, and am quite content with my stuff gown and linen pinners, which cost me but little time and thought. Moreover, it was the dress in which my dear mother liked best to see me. I know Mother Superior would say 'twas my duty to cast aside all considerations of earthly affection, like that woman she told me of who left her children to go to the convent. But my mother herself was wont to please my father in all things, and she taught us children to do so. I am quite sure Father John would say the same, but I can't ask him, because he is in Exeter, and will not be at home till night. My Lady has had my dress made all ready for me—a gown of fine brown woolen stuff, such as she wears herself, with large sleeves and linen undersleeves, garnished with French lace, a petticoat of blue damask and a hood of the new fashion, made of blue silk and garnished with lace like the sleeves; also a long tasseled girdle and wide-falling band of lace or lawn, but no mufflers or pinners, and no veil. It lies on my bed at this moment, and I must decide, because my Lady would have me put it on to meet my father.

CHAPTER XXIII.

I HAVE really put on my dress, my Lady's gentlewoman, Mistress Warner, arranging it for me, which she did with many exclamations at the improvement in my appearance. I must needs own that it is very becoming, but I do not as yet feel at home therein. When all was complete, I went to my Lady's room. She was much pleased.

"Be sure, maiden, you will lose nothing by thus giving up your will to your father," said she, kissing my cheek: "I know very well, that there is no vanity in your heart, but that 'tis a real taking up of the cross, for you to leave off the dress you liked, to pleasure your parents, and the self-denial will have its reward."

"I never thought of any self-denial!" said I.

"I dare say you did not," she answered, smiling, and arranging my hood.

I hope I shall not dislike to leave off all this finery when the time comes for me to return to the convent. I am afraid I have begun to dread that return already; but as my Lady says, "Sufficient unto the time is the evil thereof." That seems to me a wondrous wise saying. I wonder where she found it, or whether it is her own?

When I met Prudence she raised up her hands and eyes: "Lo, did I not say as much? The silks and satins have come already—next thing my Lady will find some needy kinsman of her own to whom my Lady Rosamond's portion will be a convenience, and then comes a wedding—and then—Well, well, when it comes, maybe my words will be believed."

"Maybe so!" I answered. "And maybe we shall catch larks when the sky falls, but I doubt it."

"Mrs. Prue hates weddings because she could never get a goodman herself!" said Master Lee, our old house steward, between whom and Prudence is perpetual war. "For my part, I ever said Mistress Rosamond was too good for a cloister. There are plenty of sallow cheeks and vinegar faces, that would be all the better for a veil!"

Whereat Prudence turned on him like a fury, and I retreated from the war of words to mine own room.

CHAPTER XXIV.

April 25, Sunday.        

MY father and brother came home safely, and my Lady and I met them in the hall.

"Heyday, what lady have we here?" cried my father, cheerily. "Here, let me look at you. I must say she becomes her change of dress well, does she not, Harry?"

"She is liker my mother than ever," said Harry in his blunt way, and then to mend the matter, "I crave your pardon, Madam."

"For what?" asked my Lady, smiling on him kindly; whereat Harry blushed worse than ever, and retreated behind my father.

"Well, well, child, you are a good maid, and shall lose nothing by thus pleasuring your parents," said my father, patting my cheek as he spoke. "Your new ornaments show fairly on you, and as Harry says, make you more like than ever to your mother."

"Mistress Rosamond has inherited one of her mother's ornaments, worth more than gold or jewels," observed Master Ellenwood: "even that ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is beyond all price."

I could not but be pleased and pained too, for I knew very well that I did not deserve my tutor's praise. I know that I have anything but a meek spirit.

This morning we all went to church as usual, in the village. Father John has come home, and a strange priest with him—a Franciscan friar. I tried to think of nothing but my duty, but, truth to tell, my mind was a little distracted by my change of dress, and the thought that people were observing me. I was presently, however, effectually diverted by an announcement made from the altar by Father John—namely, that 'twas the King's pleasure that for the better instruction of the people in faith and duty, the Credo and the Ten Commandments should henceforth be said in English! This is a change indeed! I saw my Lady and Master Ellenwood exchange glances, and many wondering looks passed among the congregation. I thought Father John had no great love to his task, and the strange priest looked black as night. There was no sermon, and we were presently walking home again over the green.

My father stopped to speak to some one, and Harry gave his hand to my Lady to lead her, blushing like a rose as he did so, but as usual she put him at his ease presently, and he walked by her side in silence, till she said playfully:

"A groat for your thoughts, my fair son!"

Harry answered without any of his usual hesitation:

"I am thinking, Madam, about that second commandment—about the images, I mean. Why then do we have images in the churches?"

"Master Ellenwood, you are the scholar," said my Lady, turning to him. "Will you resolve us our doubt? Why do we have images in the churches?"

"The doctors would say that it is to excite our devotion by the presence of visible representations—not for that the image should be worshipped," answered Master Ellenwood; "but it may perhaps be doubted how far this distinction is kept in mind—specially among the more ignorant."

"But the command says, 'Thou shalt not bow down to them,'" persisted Harry; "and every one does that. I don't understand it, for my part."

"There are more than you, in the same puzzle, my boy," said Master Ellenwood, smiling rather sadly.

"And you, Master Ellenwood, what think you of this new move of the King?" asked my Lady.

"I think, Madam, that the man who would keep out the sea, does not well to make a hole in the dyke—no, though the hole be no larger than his little finger," said Master Ellenwood, gravely.

I think Master Ellenwood much changed since I have been away. He seems graver than his wont, and his face hath oftentimes a deep shade of sadness. He is absent-minded also, even at our lessons, and will sometimes let Harry make the most dreadful mistakes in his quantities, without taking any notice of them.

But Harry's Latin will soon come to an end. It is quite settled now that he is to sail from Plymouth with Captain Will Hawkins, who is going to the Brazils, on an exploring and trading voyage. Harry is wild with delight. He has the true Corbet love of sea-wandering, and has already been two voyages, one to the Levant, and one to the North seas; so it is not mere ignorant longing for he knows not what. It seems hard to me, and scarcely right, that the only son of our house should be exposed to such perils as that of a voyage to an unknown and savage coast, where he may be taken and held in lifelong bondage by the barbarians, or still worse by the Spaniards, or devoured by wild beasts, or stricken by fever. But my father hath given his consent, so I suppose there is no help. My father kindly condescended to give me his reasons.

"The boy hath the salt drop in his blood, like all his race. You could no more keep him at home, than you could keep a duck from the water; and if you could he would be good for naught. Not but Harry is a dutiful son, and would give up his longing to please me, if I insisted; but he would be unhappy and restless. As for danger, I reek not so much of that, since danger lurks everywhere. The merchant who never laid hand to sword, may be slain by robbers in his own shop, and the lazy monk may die of a surfeit in the cloister. I know Will Hawkins well, for an honest, faithful and good-natured gentleman—albeit something of the roughest, as these sea dogs are apt to be. He hath been my friend of many years standing, and I doubt not will do well by Harry, and I shall feel far safer about the boy than if he were in the Court, like poor Dick."

All this is true without doubt, nevertheless, it will be hard to let Harry go. Prudence will have it that the scheme is of my Lady's concoction; whereas my Lady hath been against it from the first; though since my father decided, she has done her best to forward Harry's preparations. Harry, for his part, adores his stepmother with a kind of dumb worship, and hangs about her as his old deerhound Oscar does about them both. He hath formally presented Oscar to my Lady, and she hath promised to care for him. Only that I think her influence so good, I could almost find it in my heart to be jealous.

CHAPTER XXV.

April 30.        

MY Lord and Lady have come, with all their train, and we have been up to the great house to pay our visit. Having never seen my Lady Stanton, I was naturally curious about her. My mother told me that she was very beautiful, and gentle, and highly accomplished; but I was as much amazed at her beauty as if I had never heard a word. Truly I never saw anything so lovely. She made me think of nothing so much as of a white musk rose, fairest of flowers to look upon, and shedding sweetness around; but alas, too soon fading and easily shaken to pieces, even in its freshest bloom. She was overjoyed to see my stepmother, and welcomed me with a grace and warmth which made me feel at home with her directly. She would have us stay and spend the day with her, and sent for my father and Harry to come to supper.

Of course she and my mother had a hundred matters to discuss, of which I knew nothing; but I was quite content to listen while they talked over the news of the Court, especially when the matter of the King's divorce came up. It seems quite decided that there is to be a divorce by some means or other, though the Pope throws difficulties in the way. Meantime my dear Mistress is no more treated by the King as his wife, and hardly hath she honor as Queen, while Mistress Anne, forsooth, hath her ladies in waiting, and her levees, with the King dining with her and making hunting and hawking parties with her, and all paying their court, as though she were already Queen. It made my blood boil but to hear of her, and my mother was sterner than ever I saw or heard her, in reprobation of Mistress Anne's treacherous and light conduct.

"Yet they say my Lady Marchioness is well affected toward the new doctrines, and those who hold them!" said my Lady.

"So much the worse for the doctrines," answered my mother. "The truth hath no such enemies as they who hold it in unrighteousness. But what of the new doctrines?"

"They spread wondrously, no one knows how!" answered my Lady. "Copies of Master Tyndale's New Testament make their way in all quarters, even in the Court itself; and all men's minds are in a ferment. The Greek learning is more in favor than ever in some quarters, and more bitterly opposed in others. We heard a furious sermon against it in Salisbury, where we stayed a few days. The preaching friar said that Hebrew was the language of unbelieving Jews, and Greek of idolatrous infidels and schismatics; while Latin was the tongue of the Church and the Pope, and more fit to hold the Holy Scriptures than the vulgar tongue, which was used for all base purposes."

"I suppose Latin must have been the vulgar tongue with the Romans," I ventured to say. "Doubtless the Roman ladies scolded their maids and their children, and gave orders about meat, and wine, and spinning, just as we do in English."

"You are right, cousin," answered my Lady; "and when St. Jerome translated the Scripture into Latin, he put it in the vulgar tongue, as its name signifies."

"But by what means do the Testaments come into this country?" I asked.

"Chiefly by means of the Hamburg and other German merchants. 'Tis said there is an association called the Christian Brothers, composed of the richest and best traders of London, who make it their business to disperse the new Gospels in all directions throughout the land."

"And what says the Cardinal to all this spread of heresy?" asked my mother.

"The Cardinal is full of other matters, and like to be fuller," answered my Lady. "The Lady Anne hates him venomously, because he will pay her no court, and all men predict his speedy downfall. Wolsey himself, men say, grows weary of his life. 'Tis said he told the French embassador, that could he once see this marriage question settled, the peace accomplished, and the laws and customs of the kingdom reformed, he would retire and serve God the rest of his days."

"Alack, poor man!" said my mother. "He would finish his worldly gear first, and then serve God afterward. But surely his downfall must make great changes."

"Yes, and for that reason many are fain to see him fall. His unbounded pride, and display, and his lust of power, make him enemies, especially among the nobles, who can ill brook to see a clerk, the son of a butcher, set over all their heads. Yet there are others, and those far-seeing men, who dread his downfall. He is certainly a check on his Majesty, and has more than once crossed his humor as no other man dare for his life. Then with all his faults, he is neither mean nor cruel, and his own household are devoted to him."

By this time the babe was awake, and we went to the nursery to see him. He is a delicate little fellow, very lovely, and like his mother; but by no means so stout or fat as a babe of his age should be. My mother strongly counselled my Lady to give him no medicine, but to take him out in the air as much as might be. The mother and child together were a most beautiful sight; yet I heard my mother sigh, as she gazed, and my heart echoed the sigh, I hardly knew why.

When we went out to the gardens, as we did on leaving the nursery, we encountered my Lord and Richard. My Lord paid his compliments, with his usual easy grace, to my mother and myself, and then turned eagerly to my Lady, whom it seems he had left sleeping. It was pretty to see his earnestness to know whether she had slept well; was she refreshed, had she eaten, and so on. Even his boy seemed of little consequence beside his wife. Meantime Dick and I exchanged greetings in our old cousinly fashion. I had expected to see, I know not what change, and 'twas a real comfort to me when Dick dropped his beaver in his old clumsy fashion, as he saluted me. Presently, in walking through the maze, we found ourselves chatting as if we had not been parted a day. I felt as though I must needs take Dick to task for getting me into such a scrape by the means of Mistress Bullen, and was considering how best to begin, when himself saved me the trouble. His first words took me all aback.

"Rosamond, why did your Lady Abbess send back the packet of Venetian silks and beads I sent her? I don't think 'twas very gracious in her to reject my little offering."

I believe I stared at him like a fool. "What do you mean?" I asked, simply.

"Why, I mean the packet I sent her by Mistress Bullen," answered Dick, looking surprised in his turn. "I saw my Lady Latimer and my Lady Denny at work with these beads and silks, embroidering of stools and covers; and knowing how famous your house is for fine work, I thought the like materials would make an acceptable offering, please the Lady Abbess, and perhaps yourself. So I asked my Lady cousin to buy the things for me, and sent them by the hands of Mistress Bullen, as I said; and much amazed I was to have them returned on my hands by Master Griffith."

I saw it all in a minute; and despite my vexation I could not help laughing to think how dear Mother Superior had cheated herself.

"Mistress Bullen was a Corby messenger," I said, as soon as I could compose my face. "She made a great mystery of the matter, giving me the packet in secret, telling me that you had bidden her give it me privately. Only that dear Mother is so good and right-minded, I should have been in a serious scrape."

Dick looked vexed enough.

"Just what I might have expected!" said he. "Mistress Anne is a born mischief-maker! She said you told her you had nothing to say to any Court popinjay; even if you married, you looked for a higher match than the poor kinsman of a lord, but you would rather be Abbess of a good house than to be any man's house-dame."

"I never said such a word!" I told him. "It would ill become me to be talking of such matters!"

"It did not sound like you, and I did not believe her when she spoke," said Richard. "I could not think you so changed in a short time. But I cannot help laughing, now I know the right of the matter, to think how the good Mother cheated herself. And yet, since she did believe the packet to be yours, 'twas like a high-minded lady not to open it."

"She is a high-minded lady!" I said. "I wish she had opened the parcel, because then I should have been quite cleared in her eyes, and yet I respect her the more for not doing so. When I can write to her I will tell her how it was."

"Aye, and send the packet back at the same time, if you will," said Richard. "I have brought you some things of the same sort."

"Richard!" said I, presently, after we had walked in silence a little way. "I heard my mother and my Lady talking about the spread of the new doctrine, and the new English Testaments. Have you seen any of these books?"

"Aye, have I," said Richard: "they are falling about London and the Court as plenty as lady-birds."

"And what do the bishops and priests say to them?"

"They would like to burn the books and the readers with them, and 'tis a wonder if they don't have their will of some of them!" said Dick. "The preaching friars and the monks are as busy as the devil over Lundy in a gale of wind; but the smoke is out of the chimney and the cat out of the bag, and all the king's horses and all the king's men can't get them in again."

"But why are the priests so much opposed to the spread of these books?" I asked. "Do they say they are not the true gospel?"

"Aye, that is the pretext, of course!" answered Dick. "I heard one of them say that all Tyndale's books were printed, which showed plainly that they were not the true gospel, since the Church had always had the gospel, and every one knew that there were no printed books fifty years ago."

"Oh, Dick," said I, "you should not joke about such matters."

"'Tis no joke, but sober earnest," said Dick. "I heard him myself, and so did many others, who laughed in the preacher's face; for they can't make people swallow their words whole as they used to. What with the abolishment of the benefit of clergy and the new Greek learning, the poor old fellows are getting it on all sides. I myself heard a well learned gentleman say that Erasmus his Greek Testament had done more for the spread of the new doctrines than Tyndale his English book."

"I know Master Ellenwood's Greek Testament is never out of his hand when he has a moment's leisure," I said. "I would I knew Greek. But Richard, you only answered half my question. Have you looked into any of these books?"

"If I tell you I have read one from end to end, you will hold me for little else than a reprobate, I dare say," answered Richard.

"I shall certainly hold the book for something wonderful," I answered. "I don't believe you ever read through any book you were not obliged to, unless it were the 'Morte d' Arthur,' or some Canterbury Tale. But have you indeed read this book through?"

"Indeed I have, dear heart, and more than once. Shall I show it you?" And therewith he drew from his bosom a small, well-worn volume, and put it in my hand. Almost mechanically I opened it, and the first words I read were these, which I had so often heard from my step-dame: "Sufficient unto the time is the evil thereof."

At this moment we were interrupted by a call, and one of the servants came to bid us to supper.

"Richard," said I, "will you lend me this book?"

"No," he answered, taking it from my hands. "I will take no such responsibility; but if you would read it, ask your step-dame to give it you. She is as great a favorer of the new doctrine as my Lady Denny herself. But, Rosamond, if you mean to go back to your convent, I rede you let the book alone."

"And why so?" I asked.

"Because, an you read and believe it, you will never go back there," answered Dick; and that was all I could get out of him.

Dick is changed, but not as Mistress Bullen said. He is far graver, and more manly than he used to be. He has lost most of his old blundering bashfulness, and seems indeed not to think of himself at all. The very expression of his face is changed, yet he has all his old kind ways, and is just as ready to do service to gentle and simple.

It is odd he never so much as noticed the change in my dress.

I am vexed when I think of the coil that was made about poor Dick's simple offering. If dear Mother had only opened it—but she will know when I write to her.

To-morrow is May-day, and is like to be fine. If so we shall go down as usual, and see the dances on the green, and perhaps join in them. My Lord and Lady have promised to grace us with their presence. I fear she will think our country ways but rude and boisterous, as she has lived all her life in town and about the Court; though in her manners she is as modest and simple as any country maid.

CHAPTER XXVI.

May 12.        

THE May games went off very well. We had all the usual sports—Robin Hood and Little John, Maid Marian and all the rest of them, and besides a Miracle play—the first ever seen in these parts, and for mine own part I should hope it might be the last. The players, it seems, were at Biddeford May games, and hearing that we were to have unusual festivities here, they sent a deputation hither, praying my Lord and my father to patronize them. The Prior also gave them his good word, so my Lord consented and won my father to do the same.

The old May pole having been shivered by lightning last year, my Lord gave a new one from his own woods, a fine, stately shaft, which was duly bedizened with flowers and ribbons, and drawn to its place on the morning of the games, with all the oxen that could be mustered, and a great noise of horns, hautbois and fiddles.

We walked down to the green about ten of the clock, and found the lads and maids dancing about the pole, and more than the usual crowd assembled. There was an Egyptian woman telling of fortunes, a travelling huckster or two with ribbons, toys and gingerbread, and another selling of books and ballads, who I fear made but a bad speculation. He was a sober, decent-looking man, and seeing him looking our way, my mother beckoned him, and began looking over his stock, which was made up mostly of tracts and primers, with some ballads and penny prints of saints and virgins.

"And have you no other wares than these?" asked my step-dame. "There are many new books going now-a-days?"

"And that is true, madam," answered the chapman, (and I could not but notice how well he spoke, respectfully, but with no fawning servility, such as chapmen commonly use). "The present time is, under your favor, like the householder in the scriptures, bringing forth out of his treasures things new and old. Aye, and the old have been so long forgot in these parts that they are the newest of all."

"And that is true!" answered my mother. "Well, this is but a public place. Come you to Corby End this evening, and we will look over your wares, and give you a night's entertainment."

The man gave her courteous thanks and turned away. Just then Harry came to tell us that the play was about to begin, and only waited our coming to the seats reserved for us.

"I have little fancy for these mummeries," said my Lady to us, as we took the stools which had been set for our accommodation; "but yet we must not mortify the poor players. I trust they will confine themselves in proper bounds."

"'Tis the Passion of our Lord they are about to play," said the Prior of Stanton, who had his seat near us. "No one can object to that, surely."

"With submission, reverend Father, such a subject seems to me hardly fitted for the day and the scene," answered my Lady, gently. "Besides, does it not seem to you to savor of presumption—to say no more—that a poor strolling player, and he often a lewd and profane person, as but too many of them are—should take upon himself to personate our suffering Lord, putting his own words in the mouth of one so unspeakably august and venerable?"

The Prior fidgetted on his scat, and looked somewhat uncomfortable as he answered:

"You know, my Lady, the Church path always sanctioned these things, considering them to be of the nature of pictures and images, which are called the books of the unlearned."

"But why not expend the time and treasure which these things cost, in teaching the unlearned?" asked my mother.

"Nay, Madam, that would never do," answered the Prior. "What, would you have Jack and Jill, and Hodge and Joan, leaving their ploughing and spinning to pore over books of divinity, and discuss questions of casuistry? What then would become of the work, and of the respect which they owe to their betters?"

The poor old fat priest got so red and did seem so disturbed, that I was glad my mother made him no reply, save a smile. Indeed, she had no time to do so, for the play began directly.

I had never seen such an one before, and I must say I was shocked. There were all the holy Apostles, our Lady (represented by a simpering boy with a crack in his voice) Pontius Pilate (a most truculent looking personage), the two thieves, and worst of all, our Lord himself, besides devils and angels in plenty. The people made their remarks freely enough, and I can't say they seemed greatly solemnized or edified. The part which pleased them most was when the devils thrust Judas down to the infernal pit, and were then kicked after him, without any ceremony, by the angels, who afterward ascended to heaven, one at a time, on the same cloud which had served our Lord, and which was worked in plain sight by a man with a rope and a winch.

It seems to me almost profane to write these things down, and yet I don't know why I should feel so. We used to make little Christs of wax at the convent, and paint them to the life, and nobody thought any harm of that. And there were our Bethlehems, which practice was begun by Saint Francis himself, our holy founder, and at the first of which happened a wonderful miracle, for during the ceremony, the saint was seen caressing an infant of celestial beauty, who appeared to the astonishment of all beholders. The straw on which this apparition happened was preserved with great devotion, and worked many miraculous cures. We had some of it among our relics, and 'twas held almost as sacred as the glass containing the Holy Virgin's milk. But I am forgetting the May games.

After the play was ended, the dancing began anew. Several of the fathers were down from the convent, as usual, but methought they were not very cordially received. And when Father Jerome ventured to chuck Jan Lee's new wife under the chin, with what I must needs say was rather a broad jest, Jan gave him a look as black as thunder and drew his bride away. I too had an encounter which did not please me. I was standing by my father, and leaning on his arm, when the Prior came up to us with the same dark priest who had been in the church on Sunday, and presented him to my father as Father Barnabas of Glastonbury. Then turning to me:

"What, my fair Rosamond, is this you? I did not know the dove in her plumage!"

While I was thinking what to say in reply, the other priest broke in:

"Methinks neither the plumes nor the place are very well suited to the promised bride of Christ; how well soever they may beseem fair Rosamond!" with an emphasis on the name. It was now my father's turn to look black.

"My daughter, sir priest, is no nun; and being as yet under her father's roof and rule, she dresses to please him, like a dutiful maiden, and according to the words we heard last Sunday: 'Honor thy father and mother.'"

"Aye, there it is," said the prior. "Now may we see what comes of these innovations. Soon every man will be ready with his text and his commentary—according to the boast of that archfiend Tyndale, which I heard him make to myself, that he would so order matters that in a few years every ploughboy should know more of Scripture than I did. And what are we to do then!"

"Lackaday! I don't know," answered Will Paxton, my Lord's jester, putting in his word as usual—"'Tis an ill-ordered house where the man can write, though the master can't read."

Whereat the priest frowned, and my father laughed heartily, and gave Will a silver groat, bidding him go buy a fairing for his sweetheart. Then saying that I was standing too long and would be ill again, he led me away, and we presently went up to the Court to spend the day with my Lady, to whom I had promised instruction in the art of knitting. We passed a very quiet and pleasant day, and walking home together in the twilight, in a thoughtful mood, I suddenly bethought myself of Dick's little book, and asked my mother, saying:

"Madam, have you ever seen one of these same Testaments of Master Tyndale's?"

"Aye, daughter, that have I! I have both seen and read it!" she answered.

"And do you think 'tis really the true Gospel?" I asked again, remembering what Amice had told me about it.

"I have no doubt of it. Master Ellenwood, at my request, and for his own satisfaction, has been comparing it with the Greek and Latin text, and says 'tis marvellously well done."

"Oh, how I should love to read it!" I exclaimed.

"You would find many things to astonish you, my child," answered my mother. "Yea, to upset all your former notions, and mayhap lead you to renounce and contemn many things which you have been used to hold most sacred all your life long."

"Dick said I must not read it if I ever meant to go back to the convent," I said. "But mother—Madam, I would say—"

"Nay, dearest child, call me ever mother, if you will," said she, pressing my arm kindly. "'Tis very sweet to me to hear the name fall so naturally from your lips. But what would you say, dear heart?"

"I was going to say, that this difference seems very strange and sad to me," I went on. "If the Gospels are right—and the true Gospel must be right—then is the Church wrong!"

"Well, what then?" she asked. "Your reasoning is good, but what then?"

"Why, then we must follow the Gospel, as it seems to me," I answered. "But, mother, will you let me have this Gospel to read?"

"Yes, child! Since you ask it, I can do no otherwise," said she, after a moment's hesitation. "I dare not withhold the word of God from you—but alas, my child, have you considered that you may be taking in hand the torch to light your own funeral pile, withal? Shall I give you that which may be your death?"

"Why not, if it shall lead me to eternal life?" I said. "Besides, it may not be so bad as you say. Mistress Bullen favors the new teachings, my Lady says—not that I think any better of them for that, but she is very great with the King, as we all know."

"I build not at all on Mrs. Bullen's favor," answered my Lady. "She is indeed in the sunshine of his Majesty's countenance even now, but how long will she stay there, think you? She is beautiful and brilliant and fascinating, if you will—though I must say she never pleased me—but she hath neither principle nor prudence to guide her in her dangerous path. Ah, child, be thankful that you have grown up at home, and not in a Court."

"But as to this book!" I ventured to say.

"As to this book, you shall have it, if your father be willing to let you run the risk. But count the cost, my child, and pray for guidance to Him who has promised to give wisdom to them that ask. When you have done so, come to me in my closet, and I will put into your hands the word of God."

CHAPTER XXVII.

June 1.        

DICK was right! I shall never go back to the convent.

The next day after the May games, my mother, according to her promise, put into my hand Master Tyndale's New Testament, and with it a copy of the same in Latin—the Vulgate, as 'tis called—bidding me compare as I read. Since then every leisure moment has been spent in reading and studying and comparing, and oh, in what a new world of thought and feeling and experience do I find myself! What clouds have cleared away from my mind!

I have spent many hours closeted with my mother, and while our fingers worked at Harry's outfit, our minds were busy with these great themes. No, I never can go back, never can take the veil! I find in the word of God no warrant for any such life.

How astonished I was to find that St. Peter and St. James and other of the Apostles had been married—that our Lady herself seems to have lived at home with her husband like any other woman—and that she is nowhere represented as bearing any rule, or being of more authority in the Church than any other woman. Indeed, our Lord Himself said that any one who had His word and kept it, was as near to Him as His mother—"the same is my brother, and sister, and mother"—are His words. And then this very Gospel, which the priests keep so jealously from us, was at the first preached to the common folk in those parts—they followed Him in crowds to hear His words, and indeed very few of the better or more religious class followed Him at all. But I cannot write down all my thoughts—they are too new and too precious. I must think them over.

My mother tells me that the chapman whom we saw at the May games, and who stayed more than one night here and at the Court, was a member of the fraternity known among themselves as the Christian Brothers—a company of merchants and men of substance who devote their time, their means, yea and their lives also to spreading the word of God in this land. This same Master Bradbury's stock in trade consisted chiefly of Testaments, or fragments of the same, which he disseminated wherever he found opportunity.

My mother, I can see, builds nothing at all on his Majesty's favor for the new religion. She says he may quarrel with the Pope about this matter of the divorce, but if so, 'twill be but to make himself Pope instead. He is already highly enraged at Tyndale, because of his letter against the divorce, and hath forbidden the circulation of his books; but, said my mother, he might as well forbid the wind to blow.

'Tis even as Master Ellenwood said—like making a breach in the dykes and forbidding the sea to run through.

But I can't help hoping more than my mother does—perhaps because I am younger. Anyhow I am sure I shall never be sorry that I have come to know the true Gospel. It has cleared away many doubts and fears and cares from my mind. All anxiety for my mother's soul, for one thing; because, though she believed as she was taught, and never saw this book, yet I am sure she trusted in God for her salvation, and served Him according to the light that she had. As for my dear Amice, I feel sure that she has obtained the object of her old ambition, though in a far different way from that she proposed for herself, and is now indeed a saint—a glorified saint, to go no more out from His presence forever, in whom she trusted. Oh, that dear Mother Gertrude could have this comfort about one whom she mourns as eternally condemned to perdition! I cannot give it her—I can only pray for her and—what a word have I here written! Only pray for her, forsooth!

CHAPTER XXVIII.

I HAVE had an adventure which hath bred serious consequences in the household.

The night before last was very dark and sultry, with thick, low hanging clouds, and a feeling of thunder in the air. The sea was calling loudly, and Dobby's Pool roaring in that hollow, boding tone, which always foretells a storm. I had had a headache, and some threatenings of a chill, a visitation to which I am now and then subject, and my mother gave me a dose of her favorite spicy cordial, and sent me early to bed.

Thunder always makes me drowsy, and I was soon asleep. It must have been near midnight when I waked. The waning moon had risen, and shone full into the chamber and on the door of my mother's oratory. To my utter amazement it opened slowly, and a figure issued therefrom, dressed in my mother's garments, and bearing in one hand a dim light, in the other my old convent dress, which it seemed to hold up reproachfully before my eyes, while it uttered in a hollow whisper these words:

"Wretched, apostate child! Will you doom your own soul and your mother's to the flames of hell forever?"

I was scared at first, I confess—but the moment the apparition spoke, my courage returned, or something which served me instead. I sprang from the bed, and snatching the bed staff which stood near, I rushed at the would-be ghost, which retreated the way it had come with all haste, but not before I had dealt it one sound blow, which fell plainly on corporal substance. I followed the thing into the oratory, but it was nowhere to be seen. By this time I was as cool as possible. I knew there was but one place of concealment, namely a small closet which had no outlet, and finding the key in the oratory door, I quietly locked it on the outside, put the key away, and returned to bed.

The start and exertion brought on my shivering fit, and I was just beginning to get over it a little, when I heard a voice I well knew, but humble and quavering enough.

"Mrs. Rosamond—Oh, Mistress Rosamond—" then as I did not answer—"Oh, Mistress Rosamond, do let me out! There is a storm coming on, and I dare not stay here."

"Who are you?" I asked, trying to speak soberly, though I was choked with laughter.

"I am nobody but Prudence—Prudence, your poor bower-woman. Oh, Mistress Rosamond, do let me out, and I will thank you all my days!"

"I do not believe you!" I said. "Prudence would never play such a wicked, malicious trick, and one too so profane and impious. You are some impudent stroller and thief—an Egyptian, too, for aught I know. You shall stay till morning, and see what measure my Lord and my father will deal out to you."

She still pleaded for mercy, and in tones of such real and abject terror, that I began to fear she might die of fright, and rose to release her; but just as I was striking a light, for the clouds had risen once more, and it was very dark, my stepmother entered the room with a candle in her hand.

"Are you ill, Rosamond—and who were you talking with?" said she, looking around, and naturally surprised to see nobody. "I am sure I heard you talking."

"You did, Madam!" I answered. "A ghost appeared to me and I chased it with the bed staff into the closet yonder and locked it up, and now it is scared and wants to get out."

Madam looked as if she thought my wits were wandering, and as well as I could for laughing, I told her the tale. Then suddenly the wickedness and unkindness of the trick flashed on me, and I fell to crying as hard as I had laughed.

Madam soothed and kissed me, and making me lie down, she said she would fetch me some drops from her room—"and then I will call your father, and we will unearth this ghost of ours."

When she was gone, Prudence renewed her pleadings. "Oh, Mistress Rosamond, do let me out. My master will kill me!"

"I can't," said I. "Madam has taken the key—" (as indeed she had, thinking, I dare say, that I should relent). "Whoever you are, you must bake as you have brewed. I fear the bread will not be to your taste."

My father and mother entered even as I spoke, and going at once to the door, my father unlocked and threw it open. There stood Mistress Prudence, arrayed as I had seen her, for in the darkness she had not been able to find her own gown, and looking as foolish and venomous as a fox caught in a poultry yard.

I pass over the scene that followed—my father's stern wrath, which my mother vainly strove to mitigate, and Prue's tears and exclamations that she meant no harm, and it was only a joke, and so on.

"It is a joke that shall cost you dear," said my father, grimly. "You shall spend the night in the prison you have chosen, and in the morning you leave this house forever. But for her sake whose memory you have outraged, the rising sun should see you set in the stocks on the village green as a thief and an impudent witch."

"I am no thief!" sobbed Prudence. "I never took so much as a hair."

"Where got you the clothes you wear—and that rosary by your side—wretch that you are!" interrupted my father, his wrath rising as he recognized my mother's beads and cross, which he had always kept on his own table. "Here, you men and women—" for by this time half the household were gathered at the door—"come in and see this woman, who has dared to dress up in her sainted lady's clothes to scare my daughter. Look at her well! For by this hand you will not see her soon again!"

Many and various were the remarks and comments of pity for me and anger and contempt against Prue, who is no favorite.

"If it had been any common young lady, and so delicate in health as Mistress Rosamond too—it might have scared her to death!" said one.

"I wonder Mrs. Prue didn't see a ghost in good earnest," said another. "I should have expected an evil spirit to come after me if I had played such a trick."

"There is no evil spirit worse than the spirit of lying and cruelty—remember that, maids!" said Madam, solemnly. "Now let all go to bed, say your paternosters, and let the house be quiet."

In the morning Prue was released from her durance and allowed to go free whither she would. So much grace did my mother and I obtain for her, but farther than that my father was adamant. He declared in answer to a hint of mine that she had had a lesson, and might be allowed to remain—that nothing should tempt him to let her stay under the roof another day. And here indeed my step-dame took part against me, and on consideration, I believe they are both right—yet I can't but feel very sorry for Prue. She came to my room to bid me farewell, and I gave her some money. My step-dame did the same, though I believe there was little need of it, for I know she hath saved nearly all her earnings.

"Oh, Mistress Rosamond!" was all she could say at first, for she was really weeping—and then—"'Twas all for your good—to save your precious soul and your mother's."

"Souls are not to be saved by lies, Prue!" says I. "Remember that there is no sin that God hates more than this of lying."

"Nay, 'tis but a venial sin," she answered, excusing herself; "'tis not one of the seven deadly sins!"

"'Tis a sin most expressly forbidden in the word of God," I told her, "as you might have known if you had listened to the commandments which have been read in the church lately."

"Not I!" said she, tartly. "I am for no such new-fangled ways. But oh, Mistress Rosamond, I meant not to harm you—I did not, indeed. 'Twas all for your good, and to scare you into your duty. Oh, Mistress Rosamond, my dear heart, do not you be persuaded into breaking your convent vows! Your mother, your blessed mother, gave you to the Church the very hour you were born, and before. You will pull down destruction on your head, if you draw back—Father Barnabas himself says the same. This new lady is no better than a heretic, and I have it from a sure hand that in London she was well-known as such, and my mistress is just the same. Oh, that ever I should have lived to see the day! But, my dear Mistress Rosamond, for your own soul and body's sake, don't you break your vows and be a castaway!"

"Now you are meddling with matters far too high for you, Prudence!" said I. "As for my vows, there can be none broken where there were none made, and for the rest, beware my Lord's anger! If he should hear that you had but breathed on the fair fame of his wife, it were better you had never been born!"

She winced a little at this, and took refuge in tears and exclamations that ever she had lived to see the day: and so took her leave, meaning, as she says, to go to her sisters at Bristol. Yet I hear she hath not gone, but is staying with some one here in the village, making a great show of devotion, and specially of saying her prayers at my mother's grave. I wish she would go away, I know not why, but I do dread some mischief from her tongue.

What she said about lying has set me to looking up all the passages in Scripture relating to the same. I find plenty of them condemning the sin in the strongest terms, as even that all liars shall have their part in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second death; and yet it is true, as she said, that the Church counts it but a venial sin. I cannot understand it.

CHAPTER XXIX.

June 20.        

I HAVE been called on to make a very solemn and awful decision—and I have made it. Some days ago my father sent for me into his room, and said to me:

"Rosamond, the time has come for you to decide upon your way of life. If you are going back to the convent it is time and more that you were gone. You know what your mother's and my wishes once were on the subject. You have seen what convent life is, and now you must decide what you will do—whether you will become a nun, or live at home."

I was struck dumb for a few minutes. It had never occurred to me that I was to be called upon to decide the matter. I had somehow supposed that it would be settled for me.

"So far as we are concerned," continued my father, after a little silence, "my wife and I would gladly keep you at home. You have ever shown yourself a dutiful and good child to us, as well as to—her that is gone. But we put no force upon your inclinations, either way. You must decide for yourself."

"But not this minute, or this hour, dear heart," said madam, who had hitherto been silent. "Take time, pray, ask counsel of God and thine own heart, and then decide. Be sure that we shall be only too glad to keep you with us as long as we can."

"Only this much I must say, Rosamond," added my father, "I do believe if we could know thy mother's mind now, she would bid thee remain at home. But go now and do as madam hath said—pray—read the Gospel, and then decide. Bless thee, my dear one; and truly I believe thou wilt be blessed, for better maid never lived."

I cannot but write these words, they are so precious, coming from my father, who seldom puts his deeper feelings into words. I rose from my knees and went to mine own chamber, to the oratory where my mother spent so much time in prayer, and there I remained many hours—Madam, with her usual kind care, giving orders that I should not be disturbed.

For a while my mind was so tossed and tumbled that I could see nothing. I could not even pray, and at last took refuge in repeating the Psalms, specially the hundred and nineteenth, which seemed full of petitions suitable to my state. By degrees my spirit grew calmer, and I was able to pour out my whole heart. I do not now pray to the Saints or to our Lady, because I can find in the whole of Scripture no warrant for doing so, but every encouragement to come at once to my Heavenly Father, through the merits and intercession of His Son.

Toward evening my mother came, bringing with her own hands a simple and dainty little repast, decked with fresh flowers, as her manner is. (She does love flowers above any woman I ever saw, and has brought from London and the East country many new kinds of roots and seeds, such as have never been seen in these parts.) She would have me eat and drink to keep up my strength; and though I felt no great inclination thereto, it behooved me to please her, when she had taken so much pains for me.

"And now, my dear one, let me give thee a little counsel!" said she. "Do not you remain shut up here, but go out and walk in the fresh cool evening, before the sun goes down, and then committing thyself and all thy cares to thy Heavenly Father, lie down to rest in peace. Be sure He will guide thee to a wise decision."

I had purposed to watch all night in the oratory, I told her.

She smiled.

"And will that clear your head, think you, sweetheart? Or will a fit of ague, such as any fatigue is sure to bring upon you, assist you in deciding wisely? See here what the Psalmist says!"

And taking up my Latin Psalter, she read from the hundred and twenty-seventh Psalm: "It is but lost labor that ye haste to rise up early, and so late take rest—for so He giveth his beloved sleep!"

I saw that she was right. Certainly the ague does not clear one's head, and I am apt to have a return of it on any unusual fatigue. So I kissed her good-night, said my prayers once more, and went to bed. I was restless the first of the night, but toward morning I fell asleep and had a most sweet dream. Methought I stood at the gate of a most lovely and well-ordered garden, full of flowers, surpassing all I had ever seen for beauty and sweetness, and bathed in a light such as I never saw in this world of ours. Therein I could see many spirits, walking, talking and singing, clothed all in white, some of them with crowns of radiant stars. I looked eagerly for some one I knew, and saw Sister Bridget among the brightest, and then Amice; but they did not see me nor could I attract their notice. At last my mother came toward me, dressed and crowned like the rest, with her hands filled with roses. Her face was like herself, but more full of peace than I had ever seen it in this life, when it ever wore a shade of care.

"Dear mother," said I, "will you tell me what I shall do?"

"Honor thy father and thy mother!" said she, in her old voice of gentle command.

"But, mother, you did give me to the cloister!" I said, trembling, I knew not why.

"I gave you to God!" said she, and smiled upon me.

"And is not this the same?" I asked.

Her answer was, "They have made the word of God of none effect, through their tradition."

"Can I not come in to you, dearest mother?" I asked, feeling an inexpressible longing to enter that fair Paradise.

"Not yet. Thy place is prepared, but thou hast yet much work to do. See here are roses for thy bridal crown. Go home to thy house and wait thy Lord's time."

She held out the flowers to me, as she spoke; a most wonderful sweetness filled the air, and seemed to steal into my very soul, bringing I know not what of calm and quietness. Then I awoke, and behold, it was but a dream; yet was it wonderful clear and real to me, and I seem as if I had indeed seen my mother.

I had gone to sleep all tossed and undecided; but lying awake in the clear early dawn, all seemed to be made plain to me. How could I return to the convent, where half our duties consisted in prayers offered to the saints and our Lady—in dressing up images and the like? What should I do there? Either I must live a life wholly false and hypocritical, or I must expose myself to I know not what, of persecution, and perhaps a fearful death. And here came to my mind the niches I had seen, bricked up in the chapel vault, and the nameless neglected graves in that corner, I can't think it is our Lord's will that we should seek the crown of martyrdom, though many I know have done so; for He expressly bade his disciples, when they were persecuted in one city, to flee to another. No, I can never go back! My mind is made up, and I have told my father, who received my decision with joy. I am no more Rosamond the postulant, but plain Rosamond Corbet. My only trouble is for dear Mother Superior, who I know will grieve over me as a lost soul. Oh, that she also might come to see the light!

I have announced my decision to my father and mother, and I see they are both pleased. In recounting my motives, I was led to tell them what had happened in respect to Amice, and how that I had been secluded so long. I saw them exchange glances.

"So that was the beginning of your fever!" said my father, striking his hand on the table. "Had I known you were so mewed up, I would have had their crows' nest down about their ears."

I assured him earnestly, that I had not been ill-treated, but quite the contrary; adding that I did not think Mother Superior had any choice in the matter.

"There is the mischief!" said my father. "Nobody is personally responsible. Every one is a puppet whose strings are pulled by some other puppet, and his again by some one else. 'Tis an utter and miserable slavery from the beginning to the end, and the superiors are perhaps as much to be pitied as any one."

"I cannot but feel that our Rosamond hath had a great escape," said Madam.

"Do you think that there is any truth in what we have heard, of nuns that have been built up alive in their tombs?" I asked, remembering those grisly niches I had seen in the chapel vault.

"I cannot say for certain, but I have little doubt of it; and indeed 'tis only very lately that the thing has ever been denied," answered my father. "I know that in the Low Countries it has been a common punishment for heresy. Old Will Lee saw a woman buried alive, and said she sung joyfully till the earth stopped her breath; and I know that in Spain and Italy, far worse things have been done by the Inquisition. 'Tis not easy to get at the truth about what goes on in convent walls. A nun has no refuge and no help. She is away from her own family, who can only see her now and then. By-and-by they are told that she is dead, but who knows how and where she died? They might have told us when we came to see you, that you had died weeks before, of the sickness, and we should have taken their word for it, and all the time you might have been shut up in some prison."

"I can't think any such thing ever happened at our house," I said. "Dear Mother Superior is too kind and generous. Alas I fear her heart will be sorely wounded."

"I fear so," answered my mother, sighing, "and also many another. 'Tis a part of the cross that these days of shaking and separation lay upon us, that we must ofttimes seem to desert those who are nearest and dearest to us. It is a woeful necessity."

And here the conversation ended. My father is to send letters to Mother Superior, to acquaint her with the matter, and I have also written. My heart is sore grieved, but what can I do?

CHAPTER XXX.

June 30.        

MASTER HAWKINS, Harry's captain, hath been to see us. He's a rough sea dog, as my father says, but yet kind and good, as it seems to me, and with a clear, honest face that I felt disposed to trust. Harry took to him greatly, and is more than ever confirmed in his resolution of sailing. Master Hawkins says Harry is like a young bear, with all his troubles to come; but he adds very sensibly that troubles come everywhere, and reminded my mother of her young cousin whose father would not let him go to sea because he was the only son, and who was drowned in a pond in his father's orchard. The ships do not sail till the last of August, so we shall have Harry for two good months yet.

Something happened this morning which has vexed me more than I believe it is worth. I was down at Freshwater, to carry some baby clothes and a bottle of sack to Meg Yeo, who is not getting up well from her lying-in. I noticed that two or three people stared at me curiously, and methought there was something odd in Meg's own manner, which, however, melted away under the influence of the baby linen. While I was there, Dame Lee, Meg's mother, came in.

"So, Mistress Rosamond, you are looking fine and stout again," said she, and then to her daughter: "Did I not tell you, Meg, they were but idle tales yonder woman told? Does our young lady look like one haunted by spectres, or hunted by a cruel step-dame?"

Her words were spoken aside, but not so low as that I did not hear them.

"What do you mean, dame?" said I. "Why should I look otherwise than well, or like one haunted by spectres?"

"For no reason that I know, Mistress," answered the old woman: "only fools will tell tales and other fools believe them. Nay, Meg, thou need not be making signs to me. 'Tis right Mistress Rosamond should know."

"Know what?" I asked. "You are all as mysterious as a miracle play this morning."

"There is no great mystery in the case," said Dame Lee. "The whole matter is this. The woman Patience Hollins, whom Madam Corbet sent away, has been telling everywhere that your step-dame obliged you to leave off your convent dress, and break your vows, that she might wed you to a needy kinsman of her own, and also that the very night the change was made your honored mother's spirit appeared to you, all surrounded with flames and burning sulphur, and reproached you with your disobedience, and declared that it had taken away her last hope of salvation. Patience says she saw herself the boards where the spirit had stood, and they were all burned black—and that she saw the ghost also at a distance, and smelled the sulphur."

"She saw the ghost as near as any one," said and with that I told them the tale as it was.

"Lo, did I not tell you as much!" said the dame, turning to her daughter. "The wicked wretch! She deserves to be hung! But is it true, Mistress Rosamond, that you are not going to be a nun, after all?"

"'Tis quite true," said I. "You know my brother is going to sea, and my father and mother naturally want me at home, and there are other reasons. But there was neither force nor persuasion in the case. It was left to myself to decide, and I have, as I believe, decided rightly."

"And I am glad on't with all my heart!" said Dame Lee, heartily. "I am no believer in shutting up young maids in convent walls. They may do for those who have no other home. But what can Patience mean by telling such tales?"

"She means to hide her own disgrace and dismissal, no doubt," said I. "She is a wicked woman, and I dare say will work me all the harm she can. I suppose the whole village is ringing with this absurd tale."

"I shall tell the truth about it wherever I go, you may be sure," said Dame Lee. "Mrs. Patience is not now my Lady's bower-woman, that I should dread her anger. She used to abuse my late Lady's ear with many a false tale, as she did about Meg here, because, forsooth, Meg would not wed her nephew. But I shall let people know what her legends are worth."

"Do so," said I.

And I doubt not she will; for besides that, the Lees have always been attached to our family from the earliest times, the good gammer dearly loves a gossip, and nuts to her to be able at once to contradict Patience and to have the story at first hand. Yet, such is the love of all people for the marvellous, that I should not wonder if the ghost story should continue to be believed, and that for many generations. *

* She was right. It has been one of the family ghost stories ever since. There are enough of them to make a chronicle by themselves.—D. C.

CHAPTER XXXI.

June 30.        

A GREAT event has happened, so unexpected that I don't believe it even yet.

Three days ago, as we were all sitting at supper, comes in Thomas and says, "Here is a gentleman from Cornwall to see you, Sir Stephen."

"Have him in, man!" says my father. "Would you keep him waiting?"

"Nay, but he is so bespattered with his journey," says Thomas, "and wearied as well. He says his name is Penrose."

"Penrose—Penrose—the name hath a familiar ring;" said my father, musingly, and then: "Bid him never mind his spatters, but bring him in. He must needs be sore wearied and wet too, riding in this storm."

The gentleman presently entered—an elderly man and thin—his riding dress plain, almost to shabbiness. My father rose courteously to receive him.

"You do not know me, Stephen," says the stranger: "yet we have been playmates many a day at Tremador Court—"

"Joslyn Penrose!" exclaimed my father, and then ensued a cordial greeting enow.

"And how is my good aunt?" asked my father presently. "She is an old lady by this time."

"She is gone where are neither old nor young," answered the stranger, sadly. "My good old friend and patroness was buried more than ten days ago. You should have been bidden to the funeral, but the weather was warm, and we had to hasten matters."

"'Tis just as well!" said my father. "I don't believe she would have asked me if she had had her way, for I was never in her good graces since the day I was so maladroit as to kill her cat with my cross-bow. 'Twas a mere piece of ill-luck, for I would not have hurt a hair of poor puss if I had only seen her. Well, she is gone, and peace to her soul! I hope she has made thee her heir, after all these years, Joslyn!"

"Nay, that she has not!" answered Master Penrose. "'Tis even that which has brought me here."

"The old cat!" exclaimed my father.

"Wait till you hear, before you condemn!" answered our guest.

But here my mother interposed. The gentleman was surely too weary and hungry to be kept discoursing of business. He should be shown to his chamber, and then come to supper with us, before he said another word.

"And so she has kept Jos Penrose waiting on her like a slave all these years, managing for her, and serving her more like a servant than a kinsman, only to bilk him at last," said my father.

"I would not have been kept waiting!" said Harry. "I would have struck out something for myself."

"You would not if you had been Joslyn," answered my father. "He was not one to do so. He could manage well enough for others, but never could keep two groats together for himself. Besides that his life was spoiled by a woman, as many another man's life has been, and will be. Take care, Harry, my son, that you pay him all due kindness and deference."

By this time our guest had come back, and was soon seated at the table, each of us being presented to him in turn. When my turn came, Master Penrose looked earnestly at me, as if he had some special interest in me.

"So this is the young lady," said he, smiling somewhat sadly. "In truth, though favor may be deceitful and beauty vain, as the wise man said, Mistress Rosamond hath that in her face that makes me rejoice in her good fortune."

"Rosamond is a good maiden, as maidens go," said my father: "but what mean you, Joslyn? What good fortune hath befallen her? Has my aunt left her guardian of her popinjay, or given her the reversion of that black damask gown, I remember so well?"

"More than that!" answered Master Penrose. "Mistress Rosamond is sole heir to Tremador, and all its appurtenances. 'Tis a fine estate, for our part of the world—not less than an hundred and fifty a year, though saddled with a life annuity of twenty pounds a year to myself. Also, I am to have my nest for life in the old tower where I have lived so long, and a seat at table and in hall, unless Mistress Rosamond objects."

"Mistress Rosamond is no child of her father's if she does!" said Sir Stephen. "But are you sure? 'Tis passing strange! I thought she would make you her heir, or else leave all to the convent yonder. Rosamond was her namesake, 'tis true, but she has never taken any more notice of the child than to send her some old-fashioned gewgaws once on a time. 'Tis not right nor fair, Joslyn! You should have been the heir, and not my daughter."

"Nay, I am well content!" answered Master Penrose. "My wants are few, and if Mistress Rosamond will let me live where I have lived so long, I shall not trouble her many years."

My mother looked at me, and made me a sign to speak; and though I was so covered with confusion that I could hardly find words, I did manage to say that, so far as I had any voice in the matter, I hoped Master Penrose would always make my aunt's house his home. Then Master Penrose kissed my hand and made me a pretty old-fashioned compliment; and I was so confused and stunned with it all, that I think, like a fool, I should have burst out crying, only that my mother, seeing my trouble, came to my aid and rose from the table.

"We will leave you to talk over matters by yourselves," said she, courteously. "Rosamond is somewhat overcome, and no wonder."

When I was alone with my Lady, I soon recovered myself. She does not like to have me weep, and I am learning self-control. We talked the matter over, and I said what I felt; that I could not think my aunt had done right—that she should have made Master Penrose her heir, and not a stranger, whom she had never even seen.

"People, even very good people, often make very strange and unjust wills," said my Lady; and with that she sighed somewhat sadly. "But we will not conclude that your aunt's will is of this kind, till we know something more of the circumstances. She may have had good reasons for the arrangement. You heard what your father said about Master Penrose, that though a good manager for others, he could never keep too groats together for himself. Some notion of this kind may have governed my old Lady Tremador in leaving him only an annuity."

"I am sorry about this, for one reason," said I, presently. "People will say I chose a secular life, because I had this fortune left me."

My mother smiled. "Shall I tell you a motto I saw once in Scotland?" said she. "'Twas graven over a door, and ran thus—'They haf said—What said they? Let them say!' 'Twas an odd motto for such a place, was it not? But it may serve well enough for us. Many things will be said about your choice, without doubt, but what matter? Let them say."

"Yet one cannot be indifferent to what folks say of one," quoth I: "and I hardly know if it is right to be so."

"It is not right to be so indifferent as to provoke comment needlessly," answered my Lady; "but when we know that we have done right, we must be content to leave the rest."

My Lady then saying that I looked weary, sent me to bed, and I saw our guest no more that night.

I feel well acquainted and at ease with him now, however, and shall, I hope, be more so. 'Tis settled that next week we are all—that is my father, mother, Harry and myself—to go to Tremador to take possession, and see what is to be done in the way of repairs and the like. Master Penrose journeys with us. My father would gladly have taken Master Ellenwood, on whose judgment he relies greatly in business matters, but Master Ellenwood expects his brother from Amsterdam to make him a visit. Master Jasper is said to be a wonderful scholar, a friend of Erasmus, and very deep in the new learning, both Greek and Latin.

My mother, who has been in Amsterdam with her first husband, says she fears our housekeeping will seem very rough and sluttish to Master Jasper's Dutch notions. She tells me that in Holland they strew no rushes on the floors even of their dining-halls, but that the floors are made of fine inlaid woods or stones, and the same are washed or rubbed with fine sand every day, and then waxed till they shine like glass. Madam herself is counted over particular by our men and maids because she will have all the rushes renewed and the rooms thoroughly swept every week instead of every month, as used to be the way. Also, we will have no rushes in her chamber or mine, saying that they breed fleas and other vermin, and hide the dust. Certainly the air in our house is far sweeter than I remember it formerly. But it seems a great deal of trouble to wash floors every day, and I should think would be damp and unwholesome. Probably in Holland a little water more or less does not matter.

My Lady has told me much of the comfort and splendor in which the Dutch merchants live, of their beautiful pictures, presenting flowers and other objects in all the hues of life, of their noble collections of books, and the quantities of fine house linen, garments, and other things which their wives lay up and provide against the marriage of their daughters. I remember Mother Monica telling Amice and me that in her day the merchants of London lived in far more comfort than the nobles and courtiers.

This journey into Cornwall, which seems like a perilous adventure to me, my Lady makes nothing of, save as she seems to enjoy the thoughts of it. My father is going to stop on the way at the house of Sir John Carey, who hath long owed him a sum of money. He is a kinsman of our neighbors at Clovelly, but they know little of him, save that he last year lost his only son in some very sad way, that I did not clearly understand. Sir John is now old and feeble, and hath more than once sent asking my father to come and see him, but it hath not been convenient hitherto.

CHAPTER XXXII.

July 20, Tremador, in Cornwall.        

HERE we are, at this grim, sad old house, which yet hath a wonderful charm to me, maybe because it is my house. It seems such a surprising thing to call a house mine. We have been here three or four days, and I am not yet weary of exploring the old rooms, and asking questions of Mistress Grace, my aunt's old bower-woman. The good soul took to me at once, and answers all my queries with the most indulgent patience. Albeit I am sometimes sore put to understand her. Mistress Grace, it is true, speaks English, though with a strong Cornish accent; but some of the servants and almost all the cottagers speak the Cornish tongue, which is as unknown as Greek to me. Master Penrose, or Cousin Joslyn, as he likes best to have me call him, who is very learned, says the language is related to the Welsh.

Mistress Grace has also been very much interested in dressing up poor Joyce. She has made the child a nice suit out of an old one of her Lady's, combed and arranged her tangled hair, and so forth, and 'tis wonderful how different Joyce looks. She is really very lovely. She seems to like me well, but clings most to my Lady, whom she would fain follow like a little dog, I think. I wish she would get over that way of shrinking and looking so scared when any one speaks to her; but I dare say that will come in time, poor thing. My mother says 'tis a wonder she hath any sense left. But what a way is this of writing a chronicle! I must begin, and orderly set down the events of our journey as they happened.

It took some days to make our preparations, for my mother would have me in suitable mourning before setting out. She said it was no more than due respect to our aunt's memory, seeing what she had done for me. 'Twas like putting on my old convent weeds again; and strange to say, seemed as new to me as if I had not worn black all my life long. Dick (who has been away on some business of my Lord's,) coming in upon me in the twilight, started as if he had seen a ghost.

"I thought we had seen the last of that!" said he. "Rosamond, I thought you had done with the convent forever!"

"And so I have!" I answered; and told him how it was. Methought he did not seem so well pleased as I should have been, had such a piece of good luck befallen him.

"They will be more loth than ever to give you up!" said he. "The estate of Tremador would be a fine windfall for them! Rosamond, you have need to be on your guard! They will not let you go without a struggle. Pray be careful and do not wander away by yourself, especially while you are on the journey, or in Cornwall."

"Why, what do you fear for me?" I asked. "You are not used to be so timid." I wished the words unsaid in a moment, for I saw that they hurt him.

"'Tis not for myself, if I am timid!" he answered me, with a look of reproach; "but I suppose plain Dick Stanton, the son of a younger son, must not be too free with the heiress of Tremador!"

A year ago, I suppose, we should have had our quarrel out and made it up again in our old childish fashion; but I did not feel like that now.

"Richard," says I, "did you learn that fashion of speech out of the book you would not lend me that day in the maze? For I too have been studying it, and I have found no such thing, but on the contrary a good deal about thinking no evil," says I.

He had turned to go, but was back at my side in a moment. "Forgive me, Rosamond!" he whispered; "I am very wrong!"

"That indeed you are!" said I. "Why should my aunt's will make any difference between us, who have been playmates from the time we were little children?"

"But we are not little children now!" he answered me, with a strange break in his voice. "We are not children now, and never can be again: and oh, Rosamond, I have been cherishing such sweet hopes ever since I heard that you had given up being a nun!"

I don't know what more he might have said, but my father came in just then, and would have all the news of Dick's journey; and we were not alone again.

"Richard and my Lord rode one stage with us beyond Biddeford. My Lord and my father were deep in converse (the roads being good for the first stage, we were able to ride two abreast), and Richard rode by my side, Harry as usual being close to my mother. But there was little chance for any private converse, and I think we were both very silent. My Lord would send one of his own men with us as an additional guard, though methinks our own three, with my father and Harry, should be enough.

"I would loan you Dick here, but that he is my right-hand man—I cannot spare him," said my Lord, as we parted. "Take care of your heart, my fair cousin, and do not lose it to any of the Cornish knights. Remember, 'Better a poor neighbor than a rich stranger.'"

"Aye, my Lord, but there is another proverb—'Better kind strangers than strange kin,'" I answered.

"What, have you and Dick quarrelled? Nay, I shall not have that!" whispered my Lord in mine ear, as he gave my cheek a parting salute. "Be kind to him, my Rose of May! He was faithful to you when he had many a temptation to be otherwise."

Richard kissed my cheek, as usual, at parting, but there was that in his look and the pressure of his hand—

[I don't know why I should have drawn my pen through this, as it seems I did. I suppose I could not yet feel that 'twas no sin to think of my cousin. I knew then that Dick loved me, and from my Lord's whisper, I could guess well enough that he was no ways averse to the match, and yet I felt, I know not how, as if I had committed a mortal sin for which yet I could not repent. The truth was, I could not yet quite come to feel that I was a free woman, at least under no law but my father's will. I know I rode in a kind of dream all the rest of that day.]

We reached the end of our stage about four of the clock, tired and wearied enough, yet with no adventures more than those which I believe befall all travellers, of tired beasts and men, plentiful splashes of mud, and once or twice a horse stuck fast in the mire and hardly got out again. Cousin Joslyn being with us, we were in no danger of missing the road, as we should otherwise have been, and our numbers were great enough to keep in awe any bands of robbers that we were likely to meet in these parts.

We stayed the first night at a farm-house, where the good yeoman and his wife made us heartily welcome to the best they had of fowls, bacon, clotted cream, and I know not what country dainties, and we in return for their hospitality told them the last news from London and the Court. They had heard something even in this odd corner of the world of the good Queen's disgrace, and the women were eager for particulars.

"'Tis all the fault of the new doctrines—those pestilent heresies that crawl over the land like palmer worms," said a begging friar, a guest like ourselves, but methought scarce so welcome. "'Tis they have put these maggots in the King's head."

"Nay, I think you are wrong there," answered my father. "'Tis true, Mistress Anne is reported for a Lutheran, and maybe some of the same sort may build hopes on her advancement; but Luther himself has lifted his voice manfully against the divorce, and Tyndale—he who has set forth this new translation of the Gospels—"

"The curses of Mother Church and all the saints upon him!" interrupted the friar, spitting in token of his abhorrence. "He is the arch fiend of them all—worse than Luther himself, even!"

"Be that as it may, he hath written a letter against the divorce, and that of the sharpest!" answered my mother. "'Tis said his Majesty's wrath was aroused far more by the letter than it was even by the translation of the Gospels."

"Aye, have they got the Gospels in English again?" said a very old man, who had been sitting in a great chair, apparently unmindful of all that was going on. (I had seen with pleasure how neat and clean he was, and how careful the good woman was to prepare his mess of food, serving him with the best on the board.) "Well, well, the world goes on, but methinks it goes back as well—"

"How so, good father?" asked my mother.

"Oh, 'tis but an old man's tale now, my lady; but when I was very young—younger than your son yonder—there was great stir about one Wickliffe, who, 'twas said, made an English Bible. Our parish priest had one, and read it out to us in the church many a Sunday, marvellous good words, sure—marvellous good words. But they stopped him at last and hied him away to some of their convent prisons. 'Twas said that he would not recant, and they made way with him. They said 'twas rank heresy and blasphemy—but they were marvellous good words—I mind some of them now—'Come unto me, and I will refresh you, ye weary and laden.' It ran like that, as I remember: 'God loved the world so that he gave his Son—that he who believed should have—should have'—what was that again?"

"'Should have everlasting life'—was that it, my father?" said I, speaking I know not why, from some will, as it seemed, not my own.

"Aye, that is it," answered the old man, eagerly, his wasted face lighting up. "I thank you, my young lady—the blessing of an old man be on your fair head—'everlasting life'—aye that is it! Bless you, Madam! Yes, yes! 'Everlasting life!'"

"And where learned you so much, my fair lady?" asked the friar, bending his brows on me in no friendly way.

"From the Vulgate of the blessed Saint Jerome, reverend sir," I answered demurely. "I am convent bred, and can construe Latin."

"More's the pity," growled the friar. "They had done better to teach you to hold your tongue, and mind your spindle and needle. 'Twas never a good world since women and laymen learned to read and write!"

My mother made me a sign not to answer, and presently we disposed ourselves for bed—my mother and I in one room, my father and Harry in the other. Our beds were but of straw, but fresh and with clean and lavendered, though very coarse linen. The good woman made many apologies, though I am sure none were needful, and after lingering a little came close up, and said in a whisper:

"You will not think ill of my poor gaffer, my Lady—indeed, he is no heretic, but a godly and devout old man. You see he is more than a hundred years old, and old men's minds do mostly run on what they have heard and thought when young. But he is no heretic, but a good old man!"

"That I can well believe," said my mother. "I am glad his reverend age finds such a safe and warm harbor. Believe me, good dame, your dutifulness to him will not go unrewarded."

"Nay, we were worse than the heathen not to care for our gaffer," answered the woman, and again bidding us good-night, she departed.

We slept well, despite our hard beds, and were awakened early by the crowing of fowls, the bleating of sheep, and the loud-voiced directions of the yeoman and his dame to their men and maids. They would not let us go till we had broken our fast, and set us down to a plentiful table again. The old man was not in his place, and my father noticed it.

"Aye, gaffer sleeps late, and we never rouse him," said the good man. "Besides, I had no mind he should be questioned and teased by yonder friar. A plague on them, say I—black cattle, that spare no man's field, but live on the work of other men. Time was when we thought the begging friars the best of the clergy, and now I think they are every one worse than another."

'Tis strange how the clergy generally seem to be losing their hold on the common folk, and how little they seem to be aware of it. The good people would take no fee for our entertainment, saying that they so seldom had any guests that it was a pure pleasure to them. My mother, however, prevailed on the dame to accept a hood and pinners of black Cyprus, and a bottle of her famous bitter and spicy cordial for her daughter, who is weakly, and failing with a cruel tertian ague, which shakes her to pieces every spring, and hardly gives her time to take breath before it comes again in the fall.

We travelled much more slowly the second day, over a wild country, mostly moorland, with here and there a deep dell wherein would be a rushing stream and a few trees, with often a cool fountain gushing from the rocks. We saw but few inhabitants, and those of the wildest, more like savages than aught I ever conceived of Englishmen. My Cousin Joslyn says they are indeed savages, and all but heathen in their usages.

"Worse than heathen, maybe," said old Job Dean, who has had no good will to this journey from the first. "Every one knows what moormen are. They are no more proper human beings than mermen are—brutes that make no scruple to feed on human flesh, when by their wiles and magic arts they cause any poor travellers to lose their way on these God-forsaken wastes."

"Methinks no magic arts would be needed to make one lose one's way on these moors, in darkness or a fog," said my father.

"You are right," answered Cousin Joslyn. "Many lives are lost on them every year, not however, as I think, by any arts or cannibal tastes of these poor savages, but from the want of any roads or hostelries, the sudden fogs, and the treacherous nature of the soil, abounding in bogs, quicksands, and old mining excavations made by the heathen long ago. As for these poor creatures, I have ever found them, though timid, distrustful and full of wild and heathen superstitions, yet kindly disposed enow."

"You have been among them, then?" asked my mother.

"Yes, Madam, in my wanderings after herbs and simples, birds' nests and strange stones," answered Cousin Joslyn, smiling somewhat sadly. "The people about Tremador will tell you that I am either mad as a March hare, or else that I am a conjuror, as dangerous as the moormen themselves."

We ate our midday meal by the side of one of the streams I spoke of, and seeing some of the wild people—a woman and two children, peeping out at us from behind the bushes—my mother laid some of our abundant provision on a rock, and by signs made them welcome; and after our departure we looked back from the other side of the stream, and saw them devouring the food with ravenous haste.

"Poor things! I am glad they will have had one pleasure to-day," said my mother, nodding to the woman, who nodded in return, and made an odd gesture, stooping to the stream, and throwing the water toward us with her hands.

"That is to bring us good luck on our journey," observed Cousin Joslyn.

"More like to put a spell on us and our horses, that we may fall into their power!" growled old Job. "I would like to send some arrows among them!" So cruel is even fear, in all its shapes.

The sun had set, and it was growing dark when we entered upon the lands of Sir John Carey, and saw his house before us on the hillside—a tumbledown old pile, half manor house, half castle, once evidently a stronghold, but fast falling to decay.

"That does not look as if the knight were very prosperous," said my father.

"And its look speaks truth," answered Cousin Joslyn. "This present knight's father lost much in the civil wars, and more by the exactions of the late King's unworthy ministers. Sir John went up to London on the present King's accession, and there mended his fortune by marrying a city heiress, who brought him gold enough to have rebuilt this poor old pile. But he was drawn into Court life, and he and his dame must needs raffle it in velvet and cloth of gold, with masks, entertainments and what not, till the lady's fortune was wasted in a year or two and there was nothing for it but to return hither, and live as best they might—and bad is the best, if all tales say true."

"Aye, 'twas then I was fool enough to lend him eight hundred pounds!" said my father. "I fear I shall never see principal or interest again."

As he spoke, we arrived at the doors of the manor house, which stood wide open, so that we could see within a large hall, at the upper end of which preparations seemed to be making for supper. Out rushed a tumultuous throng of dogs of all sorts, and blue-coated serving-men, in every stage of shabbiness. The dogs barked, the men hallooed, our horses, alarmed by the tumult, reared and pranced, and I began to think we should indeed be devoured, though not by moormen, when Sir John himself appeared at the door, and by threats, oaths, and a liberal use of his crutch-headed staff, restored something like order. He then advanced to my mother, and giving her his hand to alight, welcomed us with much courtesy to his poor house. He must have been a very handsome gentleman in his day, but he looks old and feeble, soured and peevish. My Lady stood in the hall and greeted us in her turn, as we were presented by her husband, with—

"Lor, Madam, I am glad to see you, though 'tis but little we can do to make you comfortable. We are but poor country folk, now—not like what you once knew me, Sir Stephen, when I had mine own home and purse, and was served in my father's house like a Queen. Alack, I little thought then I should live to see this day! But you are welcome to what we have!"

My mother made some polite speech, such as she is never at a loss for. I was glad I was not called on to say anything.

"And these are your son and daughter—lack a day! A fine young lady and gentleman—but I believe they are none of yours, Madam?"

"I call them mine," answered my mother, smiling.

"Aye, to be sure—but they can never be quite the same, methinks. We have no children now—we had a son once, but he is dead."

Her sharp voice and face softened a moment, and then grew sharper than ever, as she exclaimed, turning to a little thin maiden with unkempt, uncovered locks and a kirtle like a milkmaid's, of coarse stuff, and neither clean nor whole, who had crept into the hall while she was speaking:

"What do you here, minion? Did I not forbid you to leave your chamber?" And with that she gave the child a blow on the side of her face which reddened her cheek and almost threw her over. The maid gave her a glance of defiance, and then looking at me, she suddenly blushed all over her pale face and threat, burst into tears, and ran out of the hall.

"I crave your pardon, madam; but 'tis such an ill-conditioned wench she puts me past all patience. But you would like to wash before supper. Here, Dorothy Joan, show the ladies to their rooms."

We found our rooms furnished with some richness, albeit the furniture was old, worn, and far from well kept; and the air seemed so damp and mouldy that I thought with regret of our last night's lodging, perfumed with lavender and the smell of clean straw. An old woman brought water and towels, and we arranged our dress hastily, not to keep the supper waiting.

The meal was set out when we came downstairs, and we took our places at the board, according to our rank. I saw Mistress Warner, my mother's gentlewoman, regarding the board and trenchers with anything but a pleased expression. As for my mother, if she had to sup with a pig, she would never hurt the pig's feelings by showing any discomforture, and I tried to follow her example.

"Where is Joyce?" asked Sir Stephen, after we were seated.

"In her chamber, I suppose," answered my Lady. "Dorothy, go and call her."

The old woman who had waited on us went away, and presently returned with the little maid we had seen on our arrival. She had evidently taken some pains to put the child in order, but she was still such a forlorn object as I am sure my mother would not permit in her scullery. She seemed undecided where to place herself, but at a nod from Sir John, she slipped into a vacant seat between my father and Harry.

"What a figure you are, child," quoth my Lady Carey; "but 'tis no use to dress her," added she, turning to my mother. "One might as well dress a hog from the sty."

The black eyes threw a glance of indignant protestation at the speaker, which showed that their fire was not wholly quenched, and instantly fell again.

"I knew not you had a daughter, Sir John," said my father.

"Nor have I," answered Sir John, while my Lady laughed a scornful, affected laugh. "This is no child of mine. She is the daughter of Jeffrey Copplestone of your parts, and a king's ward. I bought her of her guardian, old Master Earle, for two hundred pound ready money."

"And a poor pennyworth you got of her," struck in his Lady. "'Twas an ill day for us when she crossed the threshold."

"I thought as she had a fair portion, and a decent estate in land to her breastlace, she might make a wife to my son," continued the old man, never heeding his wife's interruption: "but he would none of her. Welladay, I thought not how 'twould end! What say you, Sir Stephen, will you take the wench off my hands, and give me a quittance of my debt to you? Her land lies handy to your moorland estate, and you may marry her up to your son yonder."

"For shame, Sir John! Think you such a fine young squire would wed such a scarecrow as our black Joyce?" said my Lady Carey, with that scornful laugh again. "Not but it would be a good riddance to get her off our hands, I am sure. Better send her to the nunnery, and let her estate go for masses, I say."

My blood boiled to hear them so speak of the maid to her very face, as though she had been no better than a brute. Looking at her, I saw her great eyes raised and fixed on my mother's, with such a look of imploring entreaty, as one sometimes sees in those of a dumb creature.

"And so you are Jeffrey Copplestone's maid?" said my father, turning to Joyce, and speaking kindly, as he ever does to the weak and dumb: "I knew your father well, for an honest and brave gentleman, and we stood more than one stricken field together. I knew not that he had left a child."

The eyes turned on my father this time with the same imploring look, but not a word did Joyce say. Sir John seemed in earnest in the matter, and at last my father said they would talk it over again.

When my mother and I were withdrawn to our chamber, where a fire was lighted by this time, which did us little good, save to replace the smell of mold by that of smoke—when I say we were withdrawn to our chamber, and were talking of the day's adventures, the door opened softly, and Joyce showed her pale, scared face, as doubting whether she should venture in. My mother smiled and stretched out her hand, and the action seemed to re-assure Joyce, for she rushed to my mother's side and fell on her knees, bending down as if she would kiss her very feet.

"Oh, madam, save me!" she cried, imploringly, yet low, as if afraid of being overheard. "Beg the kind gentleman, your husband, to buy me. I will serve you on my knees! I will herd cows or weed corn, anything so I may but be near you and away from here. They will kill me or drive me mad among them! Oh, take me away!"

"Poor maid," said my Lady, "poor motherless, fatherless child! Has the world dealt so hardly with thee?"

"Aye, that has it," said another voice—that of old Dorothy, who had come in like a mouse. "Joyce, you should not be here! Think if my Lady should come in and find you!"

Joyce shrank and shivered at the words, as if actually beaten, but she did not move, till after a little more coaxing and threatening she arose, and kissing my mother's hand more than once, crept slowly away.

"I dare not let her stay, and that is the truth," said Dorothy, after she had closed the door, coming near us and speaking low; "my Lady would so beat her for it if she knew."

"Is she then such an ill-conditioned child?" asked my mother.

"Nay, she was well enough conditioned when she came here, five years agone," answered Dorothy. "She is all but crazed now, and no wonder; but she does not want for mother wit, though she hath had no teaching such as a young lady should have. You see her father was killed in a duel before she was born, and her mother dying in child-bed, she became a King's ward, and old Master Earle of Biddeford got her of the King in lieu they say of moneys advanced to his Majesty's father. Mistress Earle was no lady, but a bustling, kindly housewife, and the girl did well enough with her I fancy, but her husband was a true usurer and cared for naught but money. When the good dame died, Master Earle would no more be plagued with Joyce, but sold her to our knight, and got, so our old steward says, by far the best of the bargain. Sir John thought to mate Joyce with our young master. But Master Walter would have none of her, though he was always kind and brotherly in his rough way. He had grown up at home, and learned nothing as he ought, and nothing would serve him but to fall in love—fall indeed—with Cicely Woodson, our bailiff's fair daughter."

My mother here glanced at me.

"Oh, there was nothing wrong then, madam!" said the old woman, interpreting the look. "Cicely was as proud and modest as any young lady, aye, and as beautiful too—a fine spirited lass, as you will see. It might have turned out well enough, only Sir John was so bent on making up the match between Walter and Mistress Joyce. So he told his son he must be ready on a certain day. Walter tried at first to put the matter off, and then it all came out that he and Cicely were already married by a begging friar. My master and her father were equally enraged—the marriage was pronounced null—poor Cicely was hurried away to a convent, and Walter warned that he must submit to his father. But mark what followed! That very night he disappeared, and next day word came that Cicely had escaped from her convent. But they followed them—alas, poor things!—and found them at last. The woman was dragged back to her cell—to what fate I leave you to guess—and Master Walter was brought home and shut up in the west tower. But he went raving mad—alack, and woe is me!—threw himself from the window, and all to break his skull on the stones below. Poor young thing! 'Twould have been better to own the marriage and live in peace—think you not so, madam?"

"I do, indeed!" answered my mother, wiping her eyes. "'Tis a woeful tale! But I see not how poor Joyce was to blame in all this?"

"No, nor I; but 'twas visited on her, for all that!" returned the old woman. "My Lady said that Joyce might have won him if she had tried; and that she drove him away, and what not. Poor simple child! She would have been ready enough to wed him, methinks, as he was ever kind to her. And indeed, madam, it would be a deed of charity to take the maid out of her hands, for my Lady is a hard woman. And poor Mistress Joyce would do well enough with one who was kind to her. She is ever biddable with me."

My father coming in, old Dorothy bade us good-night and departed.

"So you are up yet, child! You should be asleep, after your journey!" said my father, stooping to kiss my forehead. "Be thankful that you have home and friends, my maid, and are no king's ward, to be sold like a cow to the highest bidder!"

"Surely a cruel and hard law!" said my mother. "My heart aches for this poor maid!" and she told my father what we had heard.

"Sir John is very earnest for me to take the girl off his hands in lieu of his debt, or a part thereof," says my father. "'Twould be a great charge on your hands, I fear?"

"Nay, never hesitate for that!" answered my mother, cheerily. "Sure it would be a blessed task: but can you afford the loss and charge?"

"Nay, for that matter, I suppose the rental of the Copplestone lands is worth something, and in a family like ours, the keeping and education of such a child would make little difference. I am not like to see either principal nor interest, as matters now stand, for the landed estate is entailed, and there is, as far as I can learn, no ready money. But we will talk farther of the matter. Rosamond, my child, get you to bed, and God bless you!"

I did most earnestly give thanks that night for my home and my kind parents! I could not but think, as I lay down, what if my father had wedded such a woman as my Lady Carey! My room was a little turret within my parents' apartment, and I fell asleep at the last to the sound of their talking.

The next morning, when we met at breakfast, Joyce was not to be seen; and my Lady was clearly in a very bad humor. She had arrayed herself in much antiquated finery, to do honor to us or herself, I know not which. It was evident there had been a storm between her Lord and herself, from her red eyes, raised color, and the snappish remarks she directed toward him.

The house looked a more doleful place by daylight than it had done in the evening. The hangings were tattered and moth-eaten; the windows, filled with horn or oiled paper, with here and there a bit of stained glass left to tell of old magnificence, were dark with dirt, and let in the wind everywhere; the rushes on the floor looked to be three months old, and everything seemed forlorn and wretched.

Poor Mistress Warner told me privately that her bed had been so musty and so full of vermin that she could not sleep; and that some one had come into the next chamber and had there so cruelly beaten and miscalled a young child or maid, as it seemed, that she had much ado not to interfere. Hearing this news, I was not surprised not to see poor Joyce.

My mother, seeing the state of the case, set herself to work to pacify the offended lady with all that courtly skill and grace whereof she is so completely mistress; telling her of this and that lady of quality (I doubt the good dame did not know half of them, but that made no difference), giving accounts of entertainments at Court and at the cardinal's, and detailing the news of the cardinal's probable disgrace and the King's divorce, and suit to Mistress Anne. My Lady held out for a while, but presently smoothed her ruffled plumage, grew gracious, and began to talk herself of the days she spent at Court. Clearly those says had been the glory of her life. We sat a long time, but at last she excused herself, saying that she must look into the kitchen and see what the maids were about, and so went away in a very good humor.

"Poor woman!" said my mother. "Life must indeed be dreary to her here! She clearly cares for naught but gayety and finery, and they are as much out of her reach as if she were in purgatory!"

"I don't believe such a temper as hers could be very happy anywhere!" said I.

"Perhaps not, but yet my heart aches for her, poor thing! The change would be severe to any one, even to a woman who had many resources in herself, and how much more to one who knows no delight save fine clothes and fine company!"

"Methinks I should find it hard to be contented here!" I remarked. "I am sure I should not wish to sit down content with dirt and tatters and an ill-ordered family. I could find some days' pleasing employment in mending these hangings and cushions, and spinning new linen for bed and tables, and airing and ordering of chambers and the like. 'Till such things were done, I don't believe time would hang heavy on my hands!"

"You are a born housewife, Rosamond!" said my mother, smiling. "But you are right in this. I hope indeed you would never sit down content with any misorder or discomfort that could be remedied. That is but a poor kind of content. But, my child, we must strive to keep this poor lady in a good humor, for the sake of that unfortunate maiden. Your father tells me he is wholly inclined to take her in hand, and that Sir John is more than willing: but my Lady would fain bestow her and her goods on a convent, thinking thereby in some sort to benefit the soul of her unhappy son. I believe Sir John will have his own way, but it will be easier for all, if my Lady can be brought to consent too. I wonder where the child is?"

Mistress Warner here told my mother what she had overheard last night. My Lady was moved more than ordinary. Anything like oppression or injustice always rouses her anger.

"Nay then, is the woman base beyond hope," said she, "to visit her anger on the helpless child? Surely 'twas a kind providence brought us to the rescue of this innocent."

"My Lady, one of the women of the house told me last night that they all, save old Dorothy, believe that Mistress Joyce hath the evil eye," said Mistress Warner. "They say she overlooked the young master to his destruction. The lady herself tells them so. Do you think it can be true?"

"So they must bring their superstitions to bear against her, as well!" said my mother. "Nay, Warner, the evil eye is the eye that is full of hate, and covetousness, and uncharitableness. I see no such thing in this poor child's glances, do you?"

"No, madam; she looked harmless enough, for all I saw!" answered the bower-woman, who is a kind-hearted creature. "Even if she had fallen under the power of the devil, it would be a charity to rescue her, and methinks one who fears God has no need to fear any one less than He."

"Spoke like a Christian woman!" said my mother, and then the conversation was ended by the return of my Lady.

Well, we stayed that day and that night, and in the afternoon the matter was concluded; and Sir John, calling for Joyce, formally surrendered her to my father's keeping.

"And a good riddance, I'm sure!" quoth my Lady, with her hard, affected laugh. "I wish Sir Stephen joy of his bargain! I am only too glad to get rid of her, the ungrateful witch!"

"Hold your tongue, Sarah!" said Sir John. "See that the child's things are got together. Where are the gold chain and the string of pearls I gave into your keeping? Bring them hither, and give them over to Sir Stephen!"

"Lack-a-daisy, Sir John, how should I know?" answered my Lady, reddening and casting anything but a friendly glance at her husband. "I have not seen the trumpery for ages."

"You will find them, unless you want me to find them for you!" said the knight, in a peremptory voice. "You had them in your cabinet among your own gewgaws, I know, for I saw them. Go and fetch them here."

"Oh, very well, Sir John! So that is the way you treat your wife, that brought you all you had, and whose wealth you have wasted, and that before strangers! Alas, the day that ever I saw you!"

And with that she began to weep and cry aloud, and then to scream, till she fell into a fit of the mother.

Her husband, with an impatient "Here, women, see to your mistress!" strode out of the hall and returned presently with the jewels—a fine heavy gold chain and a necklace of fair large pearls.

"There, take her away out of sight!" said he, thrusting the things into my mother's hands. "Take her away, and keep her by you this night. Maybe I have not done right by her. I wanted to wed her to my son, and do well by her, but they would none of each other—I dare say 'twas not her fault, after all, poor wench! There, there—go, child, go!" For at the first kind word Joyce was at his feet and kissing his hand, with tears and sobs. "Go with thy new friends, be a dutiful maid, and take my blessing with thee, if the blessing of such a wretch be worth anything."

We saw no more of my Lady. In obedience to Sir John's hint, my mother kept Joyce at her side the rest of the day, and she shared my bed at night. She seemed unable to believe in her own deliverance, and started at every sound.

"She came to my room last night and beat me—oh, so cruelly!" the poor thing whispered to me, after we were in bed, "and that was not so bad as her words. She said I was a witch, and had bewitched her son to his death, and that she would have me burned! Your good father wont let them burn me, will he, Mistress Rosamond? I would not so much mind dying, but it would be dreadful to be burned alive!"

I soothed her and told her she would be safe under my father and mother's care, and if she would be a good and obedient maid, she might be as happy as the day was long.

"I will try to be good!" she said, simply. "But I am so ignorant! I have had no learning. I hardly know anything. Mistress Earle taught me to work, and spin, and say my prayers, but I have forgot them all now. Father Joe, our chaplain, used to teach me a prayer now and then, when he was sober, and he was kind to me; but he died from drinking strong ale. And then Walter died. Walter was always good—and I had no friend save poor old Dorothy."

I told her we would teach her, and bade her try to sleep, that she might be ready to travel in the morning; and so with much ado got her quiet.

Early in the morning we left the hall, seeing none of the family save Dorothy and the steward.

"Now I can breathe again!" said my father, drawing a long breath, when we were once out on the open moors. Joyce was on a pillion behind Cousin Joslyn, holding on very tight, and every now and then looking round with a scared face, as though expecting pursuit. She grew easier the farther we went, and when we were quite out of sight of the house, she too drew a long breath, and seemed as if she were more at ease.

We rode all day, across all but pathless wastes, seeing hardly a living thing save a few forlorn sheep tended by a wild, wolfish-looking dog and a boy not less wild than he. Toward the middle of the afternoon, however, we came to a hamlet, where the cottages were more decent than any we had seen since leaving home; some of them having little gardens, with parsnips and onions, and a few pot-herbs, and now and then some hardy flowers. All the people came to the door at sight of our cavalcade, and there were many reverences and smiles from men and women. They were a large, sturdy, wild-looking race, with black curly hair and black eyes.

"Now we are on your lands, my dear cousin," said Cousin Joslyn, turning to me. "This is the village of Tremador, and these be your tenants and cottagers."

I confess I was so silly at first as to feel a sense of prideful elation at the thought that I was in some sort mistress of these people and owner of the lands whereon I stood: but my second thought, I trust, was a better one, and I inwardly breathed a prayer that in so far as I had special duties toward these good folks, I might have grace to fulfil them.

"Truly a fine-looking people!" said my mother. "And the cottages are far better than I expected to see in these remote parts."

"That is mostly my late mistress' doing," remarked Master Penrose. "She could abide naught like sluttishness, or waste, or unthrift, and made constant war on them. Then we have an excellent parish priest—no drunken Sir John, like him down at the place we left this morning but a good and devout man, whose life is as pure as his prayers. Sir Stephen, there stands an old playmate of yours and mine—old Jasper, who helped us to take the falcons on the cliff."

My father must needs stop to see his ancient friend, and we soon had a crowd about us, all naturally eager to see their new lady and their old friend Master Joslyn. But they were no ways rude or prying, and when we rode away, followed us with many good wishes and welcomes, or so my cousin said, for they almost all speak the Cornish tongue, which, of course, is so much Greek to me.

Our road, now a fairly good one, led us away from the village, and skirted a long and high hill, near the top of which was perched the church, with a very high gray tower.

"What an odd place for the church!" says Harry.

"Yes, they say the devil had a hand in the building of many of our Cornish churches, and I don't wonder," answered Cousin Joslyn: "they are put in such inaccessible places. In the winter storms 'tis all but impossible for the village folk to reach this one, and my Lady had a scheme for erecting a chapel down in the hamlet yonder, but she never carried it out."

We went on for nearly another mile, rising ever higher, though by somewhat slow gradations, till we reached all at once the top of the ridge. Then what a view burst upon us! There was the sea standing up like a blue wall, so high were we above it, the land falling off to our right in a sheer precipice, at the foot of which were jagged rocks, among which the waves broke wildly, though it was a clear, calm day. In front of us opened a lovely valley—what we in our parts call a coombe—filled with woods, among which roared a brawling stream, which tumbled into the glen at the upper end in a fine cataract, of which we could catch a glimpse.

Nestling in the mouth of this glen, with a south-western exposure, lay the gray old house of Tremador, surrounded with great nut trees, and one huge pile of verdure, which Cousin Joslyn said was a Spanish chestnut. It had a homelike look to mine eyes from the first.

"The old house looks just the same," quoth my father: "I could expect to find my aunt seated in her parlor, with her cat and its kitlings in a basket by her side, just as I left them thirty years agone."

"You will find the cat and the kitlings, though not quite the same that you left," answered Cousin Joslyn. "But the house can never be the same to me again, now that my dear old friend and mistress is gone! But here we are. Welcome home to your own house, my fair Cousin Rosamond! Master Toby, you remember my Cousin Stephen; and this is his Lady, and this is Mistress Rosamond, your new lady and mistress."

Master Toby the steward, bent low to each of us, specially to my unworthy self, and then came Mistress Grace, and the men and the maids, all gathered in the hall to meet us. I don't know how I acquitted myself, but I know I never felt so young and insignificant in all my life.

Mistress Grace marshalled us all to our rooms. I was to have my aunt's, by her special direction, while my father and mother, as was fitting, had the room of state. Dame Grace says some king once slept there, but she can't tell who it was. She thinks 'twas either his Majesty Henry Sixth or King Alfred. I could not but smile, but Cousin Joslyn tells me, that though the unhappy Henry did really pass a night under this roof, there is a tradition that some sort of house stood here in Alfred's time, and that the royal fugitive was really here in some of his many wanderings. A part of the house is as old as the time of Edward the Confessor, and with its heavy, thick walls, low arches, and general massive roughness, makes me think of our shrine of St. Ethelburga, which I shall never see again.

[That was a mistake of mine. I saw all I desired and more of that famous shrine afterward.]

We have now been here four days, and I am beginning to feel at home. I have made friends with the old cat, who after considering me a while, went off and returned with a mouse, which mouse she deposited in my lap with an air of great satisfaction. Cousin Joslyn says it was a tender of service. I praised the old cat and took the mouse in my hand, and then delivered it over to the kits, at which their mother seemed quite satisfied. 'Twas an odd, but methought a mighty pretty trick of the poor brute, and I could see that Mistress Grace took it for a good omen.

I think Joyce is, however, the happiest of any one. As I said, we have arrayed her anew in a dress something suited to her quality, and with her tangled locks smoothed and covered, her face and hands washed, and her eyes growing less like a scared and beaten hound's, she is really a lovely child. She is sixteen years old, but is so small and slight she might easily pass for twelve, which my mother says is all the better, as she is so backward in her education. She has never learned to read, and has forgotten all she ever knew about her religion, save a Hail Mary and a fragment of her paternoster, which she says the chaplain at the hall taught her.

Finding my late aunt's spindle and distaff lying in my room, she begged that she might try to spin, saying that she had once learned of Mistress Earle, and after some trials, in which she showed great patience, she had the spindle dancing merrily on the floor, and drew out a very smooth even thread. She has asked me to teach her to read, and I am going to try. Untaught as she is in everything that it behooves a young lady to know, even in such every-day matters as eating and sitting properly, she is attentive to the slightest hint of my mother or Mistress Warner, who has taken the poor orphan into her kind heart at once, and is laying out great plans for teaching her white-seam, cut-work, and lace-making. Warner has the sense and wisdom to show great deference to Mistress Grace, as being so many years the elder, and they get on well together; and indeed Mistress Warner is a good Christian woman, as my mother says.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

July 30.        

THIS morning, coming into the hall, I found Joyce quite in ecstasies over a pair of young choughs that Harry had got for her at the risk of his neck. Harry, who is usually very shy of strange young ladies, takes wonderfully to Joyce. She on her part takes to everybody, and is growing so full of spirits that mother now and then has to check her a little. She is very good in general, I must say, though she now and then shows her want of training in a little outburst of temper, and yesterday was so rude to Grace that mother ordered her to beg pardon, and on her refusal sent her to her room. Going thither some hour or two after, I found her drowned in tears, because she had offended my mother.

"You can easily make matters right," said I. "Go and beg my mother's pardon and Grace's also, and all will be well."

"If it were anything but that," said she. "But to beg pardon of a servant!"

I could hardly control my smiles, remembering the state wherein we had found her not two weeks agone, but I said gravely:

"As to that, Joyce, Grace's father was as good as your own, and if he had been a hind, 'twould make no odds. 'Tis obedience my mother requires, and she is right. Besides, you have no right to despise servants. Don't you know that our Lord Himself came not to be ministered to, but to minister, and He says Himself, 'if any man will be great among you, let him be your servant.' Let me read you something about that in a book that tells all about Him."

So I fetched my Testament and read to her about our Lord's washing the apostles' feet. She was impressed, I could see, but her pride rose.

"If it were anything else," she said. "I would fast all day, or lie on the floor, or—"

"Or do anything else that you wished to do, but not your plain duty," said I, interrupting, for I began to be vexed with her. "What does my mother care for your fastings, or lying on the floor? Or what boots all these tears, so long as you are proud, and wilful, and disobedient to the friend who has rescued you from misery—perhaps from such a dreadful death as my Lady Carey threatened you with? One simple, honest act of obedience is worth all the tears, and fastings, and penances in the world."

And with that I left her. I think my words had their effect, for an hour after she came weeping to my mother, and knelt by her very humbly, saying that she had begged Grace's pardon and received it. My mother, on that, gave the child her hand to kiss, and bade her bring her work and sit on the stool beside her. So all was sunshine once more, and I think the lesson has done Joyce good.

I have been making acquaintance with the village folk, specially the women and children. They are very cordial to me, and make much of me wherever I go, but I can understand very little unless I have Grace or Cousin Joslyn as interpreter. I am trying to learn something of their language. Some of the younger people, and most of our own servants speak English, after a sort, but they are all much delighted whenever I muster confidence enough to air my few Cornish phrases. They seem a good, kindly, simpleminded set, very fond of Cousin Joslyn, who is their physician and counsellor in all their trouble, looking up to the priest with religious awe, and having as few vices as one could reasonably expect.

They seem fond of the memory of their old Lady, though one of the younger women whom I visited without Grace, and who speaks English fairly, told me her Lady was "mortal tiresome and meddlesome about cleaning and rearing of babies." I hope I shall not be mortal tiresome, but if ever I come here to live, 'tis a wonder if I don't have my say about the rearing of these same babes.

I have already talked with Cousin Joslyn and Father Paul about a plan for a dame school, where at least the maidens might be taught the use of their fingers, in spinning, knitting, and mending of their clothes. Mistress Warner demurs at the knitting, which she says is work for ladies, like embroidery and cut-work, and not for cottage maids. But since it makes good warm hosen, I see not why they should not learn it as well as spinning.

Our priest, Father Paul, as he likes to be called, instead of Sir Paul, is one of an hundred. I never saw a better, purer face than his, though 'tis wonderful thin and worn, and by times full of care. He preaches every Sunday to the people, and repeats whole chapters of the Gospels and Epistles. Last Sunday 'twas that same which the Bishop gave us in the convent, upon charity, though I did not know then whence it came. ('Tis strange how far away seem those old convent days. I can hardly think I am the same maid who was content to spend hours over a cut-work cope, and never had a thought beyond what my superiors told me, or a doubt but that all our endless litanies to the Saints and our Lady were true prayers. But this is by the way.) I am sure Father Paul reads the Scriptures a great deal, for he is always repeating them to the people, as I said, and makes the most clear and practical applications of them to the common matters of every-day life.

Then he visits a great deal from house to house, specially where there is sickness or any trouble and he has composed many quarrels, to which these Cornish folk are a good deal given. He has made acquaintance with many of the wild moormen, and even persuaded some of them to come to the church now and then, to be wedded, and to have their babes christened.

I saw one of these weddings one day, and gave the bride a kerchief, which I had put in my pocket for some one in the village. The whole party were greatly pleased, and this morning the old mother of the bride came and brought me a great basket of whortleberries, the finest I ever saw. She would have no pay, so I gave her a pair of scissors and some needles, and Mistress Grace added what the poor thing seemed to value more than anything, a great loaf of brown wheaten bread. She gave us to understand that her child (not the bride, but another) was very ill, and could eat little, but would like the bread. Thereupon Grace, always compassionate, added a pot of honey, and a bottle of some cordial medicine to her gift, and the poor woman went away very happy.

'Tis strange with what a mixture of awe and contempt the servants and villagers regard these wild folk, who do indeed seem of another race than themselves. Cousin Joslyn thinks the moor folk are remnants of the first race who inhabited the country. I wish something might be done for them. But indeed I might say the same for the whole land, not only of Cornwall, but of our own Devon, and of all England.

Under what a worse than Egyptian darkness it lies! But one can see the glimmering of dawn, and here and there a mountain top touched by the sun; and I cannot help hoping that better days are at hand. My mother, however, is not sanguine—that is, she believes the truth will prevail, but only after long waiting, and many hard, and it may be bloody struggles. She has known the King from childhood, and she says she believes if he puts down the power of the Pope in this country 'twill be only to set himself in his place. But these are too high and dangerous matters for me.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Aug. 3.        

SAD news! A courier came from home last night with the mournful tidings that my Lord's little son seems to be failing fast, and begging us to hurry home as quickly as possible, that they may have the benefit of my mother's counsel. Alas, poor little boy! I can see that my mother has little hope of finding him alive, from the account which Master Ellenwood writes of his state. Jasper Ellenwood, who hath been bred a physician in the best Dutch and Paris schools, is at the Court night and day, but he gives little encouragement.

We leave to-morrow. Joyce is quite heart-broken at leaving Mistress Grace, to whom, since their quarrel, she hath greatly attached herself, and bestows some of her tears also upon a beautiful young Spanish cat * which Cousin Joslyn hath bestowed on her. Father says she may take it home if she can get one of the men to carry it. The choughs, her other pets, she leaves with Cousin Joslyn to be taught to speak.

* What we now call a tortoise-shell—then a mighty rarity.—D. C.

CHAPTER XXXV.

Aug. 5.        

HERE we are at home again, safe and sound, having made the journey in less than three days. The poor babe is alive, and that is all. My Lady is like a ghost so pale, wasted and woe-begone; but keeps up for the sake of her husband and child. I see my mother has great fears for her.

Aug. 12.        

My mother being so much at the great house, Joyce naturally falls to me. She has been put to sleep in the little green room which opens into mine, and sits with me every morning doing her task in the hornbook and in sewing and spinning. She takes to the use of her fingers readily enough, but is sadly dull at her book. Master Ellenwood, whom I consulted, advised me to give her pen and ink and let her imitate the letters, and I think we shall get on better. She is so good and tries so hard, that I cannot for very shame get out of patience with her. In the afternoon we take long walks and rides with Master Ellenwood or Harry for escort, or go to see the sick folk in the village.

The babe still lingers, but we have no hope of his life. My Lord is like one distracted, but more I think for the mother than the child. He depends for everything on Richard, and can hardly bear to have him out of sight; so we see little of Dick. He will be the next heir if this poor boy dies, unless there are others. The prior said as much to him the other day, adding "that 'twas an ill wind," etc., (a fine speech for a Churchman). My father said Richard's brow grew black, but he answered courteously:

"If my prayers could keep the child alive, my reverend Father, he would live to be as old as Abraham."

Whereat my father said the prior had the grace to look ashamed. Poor old man, he himself cares for naught but money, and I suppose he can't understand how any one can be really disinterested.

I must not forget to say that the Spanish kitling made the journey in the pocket of Harry's horseman's coat, sorely discomposed at times by the shaking, and wailing pitifully, but on the whole behaving very well.

We stopped for one night we were on the road at the same yeoman's house as before, and had the same hearty welcome. We heard that they found the old gaffer dead in his bed the next day but one after our visit. The dame said the words he had repeated to us were constantly on his lips the last day of his life, and when she put him to bed, he asked her "when that young lady would come again?" and left his blessing for me. And after she left him, she heard him murmuring over and over—"everlasting life—everlasting life." Truly a happy end.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Aug. 18.        

THE dear babe is gone—he died on the morning of the thirteenth, and is buried in the churchyard of the Priory Church, where both families have a right. My Lady tries to keep up, but grows more feeble every day. My Lord is with her every moment, Richard taking all cares off his hands.

     "I wolde not brethren have you ignoraunt as concernynge them which are fallen aslepe, that ye sorowe not as wother do which have no hope. For yf we beleve that Jesus died, and rose agapne: even so them also which slepe by Jesus, will God brynge agapne with him . . . Therfore comfort youre selves one another with these wordes."

             Tessalonyans chap iv

[These words gave me great comfort in my sorrow, so I have copied them here.]

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Aug. 20.        

THIS morning my father and mother called me to a conference. I knew my Lord had been with them, and went thinking of nothing more important then perhaps that my Lady desired me to stay with her; but saw at once by their faces that there was more in the matter than that. My mother bade me to a seat beside her, and then my father said:

"Rosamond, here has been my Lord proposing—asking—" then turning to my mother: "Madam, do you be spokesman—I am a fool, and that is the whole on't!"

"My Lord has been proposing a match for you, daughter, and your father wishes to know your mind before giving him an answer. Richard Stanton wishes to make you his wife, and my Lord also desires the match."

"You see, Dick is the next in succession, and my Lady is very frail," added my father, "so 'tis proper and right that Dick should marry. It seems, however, that Master Dick will have nobody but his country cousin, after all the fair ladies he has seen at court and abroad, and my Lord thinks he could not do better."

I was covered with confusion, and could hardly look up.

"Well, what say you, chick?" asked my father. "Wilt wed Dick Stanton, and live here at home? You might doubtless make a richer and greater match, for even if my Lady should not recover, my Lord is of an age to marry again, and with my aunt's estate for a portion, you will not go begging. But we all know and like Dick, who is good and true as the day, and not so badly portioned either for a younger son; besides that, my Lord will give him the estate of Coombe Ashton, if he weds to his liking. So what say you, daughter, for all rests with you? I will wed no child of mine against her will."

I managed to murmur that I had no wish to oppose the will of my parents and my kinsman; whereat my mother bent down and kissed my brow, saying with a little gentle mischief:

"See you, Sir Stephen, what a dutiful child we have here!"

"Aye, well broke, as old Job's horse, which would always go well on the road homeward," said my father, smiling. "But what think you my Lady Abbess will say, my Rose?"

"I fear she will be grieved," I answered; "but I could not have returned to her, at any rate. Sister Catherine will say it is just what she always expected!"

"I dare say she would fly at the chance herself, the old cat!" said my father. "Well, Rosamond, I am heartily glad your choice jumps so well with ours in this matter, for though I would have preferred Dick above many a richer and greater suitor, I would never wed a child of mine against her will. I saw enough of that in mine own mother's case, who lived and died a broken-hearted woman; aye, and that though my father would have coined his very heart's blood to save her. She was a model of wifely duty and reverence too, poor Lady, but the one thing my father longed for, that she could never give. Well, well! God bless thee, child, with all my heart: thou bast ever been a dutiful daughter to me and to her that is gone. Well, I must go see my Lord and Dick, who is pacing the maze like a caged lion. There will be need of a dispensation, and I know not what, beside the settlements for our heiress here. What think you, chick? Does Dick seek you for the sake of Aunt Rosamond's acres and woods?"

"Not he!" answered my mother for me. "One must have been an owl indeed not to see how matters were long before Rosamond had any title to acres or woods. I had a shrewd guess at it before ever I saw Rosamond herself, when our young squire used to linger beside me in London to talk of his cousin, when others were dancing. I thought then it would be a shame for the cloister to part two true lovers."

I could not but rejoice in my heart when I heard this, that Richard had preferred talking of me, even when his love must have been well-nigh hopeless, to dancing with those court ladies of whom Mistress Anne told me. I never did believe a word she said, the treacherous viper!

All this chanced only this very morning, and already it seems ages agone. Dick and I have had a long talk together down at the spring, where we used to have so many. How that place used to haunt my dreams in the convent! Father Fabian said 'twas a temptation of the devil, and I never would let my mind dwell on it in the day-time; but I could not hinder its coming back at night.

As we sat on our old moss-grown seat by the clear well, we saw a chaffinch—perhaps the very one Dick showed me on the eve of Alice's marriage—flying in and out among the bushes with its young brood. I took it for a good omen.

As we sat there, gazing down into the spring, a shadow fell on us, and looking up, there was Patience, my mother's bower-woman.

"So it has come to this, even as I said!" said she, with no form of greeting.

"Not quite!" I answered. "You said my mother would wed me with a kinsman of her own."

"So it has come to this!" she repeated again, paying no heed to my words. "You, Mistress Rosamond, who were consecrated before you were born, and wore the veil in your very cradle—you are returned to the world, even as your mother did before you!" Then changing her tone, and falling on her knees at my feet: "Oh, Mistress Rosamond, don't! For love of your own soul, don't go to throw yourself away thus—don't bring down wrath and shame on your head, and doom your mother's soul to endless woe! I know you don't love me, and maybe you have small cause; but I loved your mother, and I nursed you when a fair babe. Oh, Mistress Rosamond, think before it is too late!"

The woman was fairly convulsed with sobs.

"Nay, Prue, why should I bring woe on my head by obeying my father?" said I. "I never was professed, so I break no vows, and why cannot I serve God as well in the married state, which was that of Saint Peter himself, as in a convent? St Peter was married, and so was St. James, and what was good enough for them should be for me, surely."

"And St. Paul says, marriage is honorable in all—remember that, Prudence!" says Dick. "And when our Lord was on earth, he went to a wedding and turned the water into wine for the poor folks."

"I don't believe it!" says Prue.

"Then you don't believe the Gospels, and that is worse than being married," answered Dick, gayly; and with more of his old mischief than I have seen in him for a long time. "Come, Prue, be a reasonable woman, and here's a good Harry gold piece to buy you a new gown for the wedding."

"I shall never see that wedding!" said she, never noticing the money he held out to her. "I have warned you and entreated you, and all in vain. Your blood be on your own heads, if you persevere! Only remember, when the stroke comes, that I warned you!"

And with that she turned away and left us.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Aug. 30—the day after.        

THE formalities are all arranged, and to-morrow I shall be a wedded wife. The matter has been hurried for Harry's sake, because he must sail so soon, and also because my Lord will take my Lady to her own old home, which she yearns to see again. Perhaps they may also go abroad in search of a milder climate, though the disturbed state of affairs makes that doubtful.

We are to keep house at the Court till they return, and then go to our own house at Coombe Ashton. I would like to live awhile at least at Tremador, for my heart is drawn to my people there, and perhaps we shall do so. I am glad my mother has Joyce, who gains on our hearts every day. She is very loving and easily swayed, though, as was to be expected, she has many faults, the worst of which, in my mother's eyes and mine, is a want of truth. If she commits any fault or meets any mishap, she will lie to hide it.

My mother says it is just what she should expect in any one so severely handled as Joyce has been, and she believes it may be overcome by kindness and wise treatment: and she did yesterday come to my mother, bringing a drinking glass she had broken. Nobody saw her do it, and the mishap might have been laid on that universal scape-goat, the cat; so we think it a hopeful sign.

She was overwhelmed with grief when she found I was going away as well as Harry, and I could hardly pacify her by promises of visits and what not. She would fain have bestowed on me her greatest treasure, the Spanish cat, bringing it in her arms with her eyes running over with tears: but I showed her that 'twould be unkind to Cousin Joslyn to part with his present, and that Puss would be unhappy away from her, and proposed instead, that as she can really spin wonderful well, she should make me some hanks of fine woollen thread for my knitting; whereat she was comforted. She is a dear maid, all the more engaging from her odd blending of the young child and the woman.

There are only two things to make me at all uncomfortable. One is that I have had a most sad and reproachful letter from dear Mother Superior. She regards my marriage as nothing less than sacrilege, and implores me to cast off my betrothed husband and return to the arms of my Heavenly Spouse who will receive me even now; and if I am faithful in penance and prayer, may make me all the brighter saint for this sacrifice.

But that is not the worst of it. She says she has heard that both my step-dame and Lady Stanton are infected with the new doctrine. She says that she has it from a sure hand that my mother was in London a constant associate of my Lady Denny and other well-known heretics, and was believed to have sent relief both in money and food to heretics under sentence in the common prisons. She lays all my apostasy, as she calls it, to the account of my Lady Corbet, and implores me to fly from the tyranny and ill-guidance of my cruel step-dame to the arms of my true Mother.

I must own that I shed some tears over this letter, remembering ancient kindness, and grieving over the grief of the dear Mother who was ever kind to me, even when I was under a cloud concerning the affair of Amice Crocker; but it has not shaken my determination one whit. I believe (besides what I owe to my espoused husband), I am in the plain path of duty in obeying my natural born father. Seeing the truth as I do now, returning to the convent would be one of two things—either going into a regular course of hypocrisy and denying of the truth in every word and action, or it would be going straight to disgrace, imprisonment, and perhaps a dreadful death! The very foundations of mine ancient life were shaken by Amice Crocker's death and the circumstances attendant thereon, and they have been utterly ruined and pulled down by what I have since heard and read for myself in Holy Scripture. I cannot build them again if I would, and I would not if I could. As to my mother's promise concerning me, 'twas made in ignorance, and I do not believe she would now desire me to fulfil it. I could not do it, even if I were not promised to Richard. I can honestly say that I have tried to decide rightly, and I believe I have done so. My mind is at ease, so far as that is concerned.

The other thing which troubles me is that Harry must leave us the very day after the wedding. I think his desire for the voyage hath suffered some diminution of late, specially since Joyce has come to live with us: but he hath too much of my father in him to give up lightly any purpose he hath gravely formed. He hath grown much more manly and serious of late. His whole collection of pets—dogs, horses, the old donkey, the peacock, and all, he hath consigned to Joyce—all save the old bloodhound, which will follow nobody but himself and my mother.

My father hath given me a beautiful Spanish genet, and another horse for my own riding, with all new furniture for the same. I have half my own mother's clothes and jewels, and great store of new garments and ornaments from my parents and my Lady, and a cupboard of plate, far too fine for a simple squire's dame, from my Lord.

Captain Hawkins came yesterday and brought me a piece of beautiful silk stuff from the Levant, and two fine carpets, soft almost as velvet, and of the richest colors. He says in the East, and even in Venice, they use these beautiful carpets on their floors, which seems a mighty waste.

Master Jasper Ellenwood gave me a Venice gold chain, and a drinking glass in a case, with other conveniences. He is a fine, grave gentleman, and I have learned much from him about ways of living abroad, specially in Holland, which country must be a kind of paradise of good housekeepers. It is even true that they use no rushes on their floors, which are scoured two or three times a week, and many even of the common houses have glass windows. By this neatness they escape many plagues in the shape of vermin, specially fleas; but I should think such constant washing and dampness would breed rheums and fevers.

I must not forget another of his presents, a beautiful cup made of a kind of fine pottery ware, only much harder and lighter than any of our pottery, and ornamented with painting and gilding which will not wash off, but are in the very substance of the ware. He says these dishes are brought from Cathay, where even the common people use them for eating, and also for drinking a kind of broth of certain dried herbs, which makes a great part of their living. Poor diet, methinks, which would hardly content Englishmen, though Master Jasper says 'tis a healthful and refreshing drink.

It is really a wonderful thing to see a man who has been in Cathay and the Indies. Richard has asked him to visit us by-and-by, and he has promised. His advice has been of great use to my Lady, and though he could not save the poor babe, his constant care of the child has endeared him greatly to the family, so that my Lord would fain have him take up his abode with them.

There is a rumor afloat, which nobody can trace, that a pirate vessel hath been seen on the coast hereabouts, but my father and Captain Hawkins do not think it true. Still there are many lurking-places on these wild shores, where such a vessel might hide, and it behooves us all to be careful. Master Ellenwood says he has seen English boys and girls sold as slaves in the Bagnios of Constantinople and Egypt.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Coombe Ashton, Sept. 10.        

HERE am I, Rosamond Corbet no more, but Rosamond Stanton, a sober matron of a week's standing. After all we changed our plans at the last, and came on here the day but one after the wedding, on account of some business which had to be attended to. Alice was quite furious at my being carried off so soon, but none of us at Stanton-Corbet were in any mood for festivity, and I was by no means sorry to escape the usual round of wedding banquets and jests, and have a little time to think. My father and mother and Joyce came over with us, and left us only this morning.

We are all sad at Harry's going away, and Joyce is broken-hearted. I expected from her a tempest of grief, and then all over; but it goes much deeper than that. I do believe those two childish hearts have waked up to real love. I had a long talk with Joyce yesterday, telling her how she must strive to be docile and cheerful, so as to take my place as a daughter at home, and make them all happy.

"I will do my best," said she, "but I can never make your place good, Rosamond."

"Nobody can ever exactly fill another's place perhaps," said I; "but we can all do our best to adorn our own. You have a great deal to learn, 'tis true, but your capacity is good, and in my mother and Master Ellenwood you have the kindest of teachers. Now, what are you smiling at?"

"Because you talk so old!" answered the saucy popinjay. "One would think Mistress Stanton was twenty years older than our Rosamond!"

"Whereas she is really many years younger," I answered, glad to see her laugh, though at my own expense. She sobered down, however, and begged my pardon for her sauciness, adding that she meant to be very good, and learn everything that my mother would teach her.

"And I mean to be happy, too!" she added, very resolutely, though with some bright drops standing in her eyes. "I am so thankful to Sir Stephen, that it does not seem as if I could ever do enough for him. Madam says I must thank God too, and I do. When I think how I lived with my Lady Carey, it seems as if I had been in a bad dream from which you came and waked me. It was a blessed wakening for me."

And for us too, I told her, and indeed I think it will prove so—she shows herself so well conditioned, and it will be a real blessing to Harry to have a wife brought up under our mother's eye. But that is looking very far forward.

There is no village here, only a little fishing hamlet, at the mouth of the Coombe; but to my surprise I find they have really a dame school, taught by a woman who came hither last year. There is no church nearer than Clovelly, which is three miles away, and Stanton, which is just as far in the other direction.

CHAPTER XL.

Sept. 12.        

I HAVE been very busy ordering my house and my servants, by the help of Mrs. Warner, whom my mother has lent me till I shall be more at home. She is a great help by her experience and cleverness, and a right pleasant companion as well. She owned to me that she did sometimes long for London, but nevertheless was quite content wherever her mistress was. She has lived with my mother since the days of her first marriage, and travelled with her both in England and in foreign parts, and her mind is enlarged much beyond the ordinary waiting-gentlewoman's tittle-tattle. If it were not selfish toward her and my mother, I would love to keep her altogether.

We went down this afternoon to see the village, if it can be called so, and especially the school of which we had heard. All the men were abroad fishing, as usual, but the women made us very welcome. I found them all speaking well of the schoolmistress, though they owned that they had thought it nonsense at first; but two little orphan maids whom she took in, made such marvellous progress in spinning and sewing that the mothers were soon won over. It seems she asks no fees in money (of which indeed they have next to none), but is content with enough of fish and fuel to eke out the product of her own goats, hens, and herb-garden, which she works with her own hands.

After chatting with one and another, we went on to the school, a decent but very small cottage, from the door of which, as we came up, streamed forth some dozen of urchins, who all stopped to stare at the new lady, of course, and then awaking to a sense of manners, they went off in quite a shower of reverences from the girls, and bobs from the little lads, all the latter very small, of course. I asked the name of one and another, but could extract very little from their shyness. One little girl, however, rather older than the rest, told us her name was Jane Lee—which is next to no name at all, in these parts.

"And what is your dame called?" I asked.

"Oh, just our dame. Mammy calls her Dame Madge."

Just then the dame herself appeared at the door, and I could hardly repress a cry as I recognized in the tall spare figure, and strong but kindly features, one associated with the most solemn passage of all my life—one whom I last saw as the doors of St. Ethelburga's shrine closed on her—Magdalen Jewell! I saw too that she knew me, for she turned very pale. She has grown quite gray, and looks older and more bent, but the repressed fire still shines in her eyes as when she bade Queen Catherine and the rest of us welcome to her cottage at Torfoot. I put my finger on my lip, and I saw she comprehended the signal. She asked us into the cottage, and placed seats for us with all her old courtesy; and while I was puzzling my brains how to begin, she relieved me of my trouble in the most natural way possible.

"I knew not that our young lady of the manor was to be one whom I had seen before!" said she. "You are most welcome, madam, to my poor cottage."

Then to Warner, who looked surprised: "I used to live some way from the convent where the lady was educated, and have seen her both in the church and at the convent gate, helping the kind ladies distribute their alms."

"And I was at your cottage on the moor with good Queen Catherine and her bower-woman," I added. "Do you not remember?"

"I do, though I knew not then it was the Queen!" answered Magdalen. "Do you know, madam, how it fares with that good lady?"

I told her very ill, I feared; and then spoke of the work she had taken in hand.

"Aye, 'tis little I can do!" she answered, "Yet every little helps, and the poor maids are out-of-the-way at home. They take well enough to spinning and making of nets, and I would fain teach them to sew, but needles and thread are so hard to come by, that the mothers do not like to waste them in such little hands!"

I told her I would supply her with both, if she would come up to the house. I was burning with a desire to see her alone.

"Is not the air here bad for your health?" I ventured to ask her.

"Nay, I think not," she answered, taking my meaning at once. "I have had no trouble heretofore."

Mistress Warner now reminded me that it was growing late, and we took our leave. In the evening Magdalen came up to the house, and Richard and I got from her the history of her adventures. She said she had remained in a hiding-place she knew of for three or four days, till danger of pursuit was over, and had then made her way across the moor, disguised as a hawker of small wares, till she reached this place, where she thought herself safe, as there is little or no communication. And indeed there are no roads across the moors which lie between us and my old home, though we are not many miles away. Magdalen was much touched at hearing of the manner of Amice Crocker's death.

"'Twas a blessed end," she said; "and yet I must needs grieve that her young life should be laid down for my old one."

"I do not so regard it," I said. "I believe Amice must soon have died at any rate, and what she did could only at worst have hastened the end a little."

"Her work was done and yours was yet to do," said my husband (the name comes strangely to my pen, even yet). "You are doing a good work here, and so far as my power reaches you, shall be protected in it. Only keep your own counsel, and I trust all will be well."

[These few leaves which follow were writ first on certain small bits of paper, which I chanced to have in my pocket; but in such a cramped hand, and so uncertainly in the darkness, that I had much ado to read them myself when I tried to make the fair copy which I have put in here. I have kept the first leaves, and the very sight of them seems to bring over me the close and heavy smell of the vault just as the odor of crushed ivy will ever bring to mind that stormy October morning.]

CHAPTER XLI.

St. Ethelburga's Shrine, Sept. 30.        

I DON'T know that any one who loves me will ever see these lines, but stranger things have happened, and I will never give up while I live the hope of seeing my husband again. For his sake I will keep my senses together, by God's help, through all the horrors of this place, and of all with which they threaten me. Yea, if one of these niches, as that fiend threatened, is destined to enclose me alive, I will struggle to the last. I will never give up. Magdalen escaped from this place, and why not I? Only no one knows I am here. They will all think I have been carried away by the pirates.

But it may be His will even yet to save me, and if so, none of their schemes, however artfully laid, but must fall to the ground. And if I am to suffer for my faith, I know He will support me to the end, as He did Amice and has done many another. By His help I will never deny Him; and they shall never make me say I am sorry for marrying my husband—never! I glory in his name! I cherish the memory of his last embrace, when we thought ourselves parting for but a few hours, and I know we shall meet again where no malice or wrath of man can part us. Yet my spirit shrinks to think of his return to his desolate home! Oh, Richard, Richard! Oh, to see thee once—only once again!

Mistress Warner and I had set out to walk down to the cove to see a child, one of Magdalen's pupils, who had met with a bad scald. Richard had ridden over home, meaning to be back at night. We had gone about half way, when I remembered some linen I had meant to bring for a lying-in woman, and sent Warner back for it—I sitting meanwhile on a rock which formed a natural seat beside the stream. I had sat thus but a few moments, when I heard, or so I believed, a child crying in the wood close at hand. I thought of nothing but that one of the children from the hamlet had got astray, and as I always run about our own woods without fear, I went to seek it. I was well within the shadow of the woods, when all at once I felt myself seized from behind—a cloak was thrown over my head, and I was so muffled that I could not scream or make any noise to be heard.

"Make no resistance, Mistress!" said a man's voice. "If you utter a sound, you die the next moment!"

I was in their power, and there was no help, so I submitted; and being bound, I was carried some distance, and then found myself in a boat from which I was lifted up the side of a vessel and placed below. The air was stifling, even if my head had not been covered; but at last the cloak was removed and my eyes were bandaged instead. I made good use of them in the moment I had them, however, and saw that I was in the cabin of a small vessel, such as ply along this west coast to and from Bristol. More I was not allowed to see.

Somehow my mind was curiously calm all the time. I believed I had fallen into the hands of pirates, and might be carried away to Turkey and sold as a slave; but I was determined not to lose my life or liberty without an effort. I said my prayers, commending to Heaven myself, my husband, and my friends at home, and prayed earnestly for release and for grace in my time of need. I kept my ears open, and judged that I was alone in the cabin; but I could now and then catch a few words from the deck, and those words I was certain were English.

After much tossing, which lasted for many hours, we were again still, and I heard the casting of anchor and the lowering of a boat. I was once again muffled in the cloak, and being set on shore, found myself on horseback behind somebody, to whom I was bound fast by a belt. We rode fast and far—how long I could not tell, but at last our ride came to an end. I was once more taken down, carried through some place which echoed hollow, like a vault, and then downstairs; but before I reached the bottom, I heard a whisper which told me where I was.

"Ah, 'twas ever what I looked for!" said a voice, which I knew right well.

"Hush!" said another voice, with imperative sharpness.

Then being set down, my hands and eyes were unbound, and a glance told me my whole situation. I was in the vault under St. Ethelburga's shrine, in our old convent garden. Before me were the new mother assistant, a priest whom I had never seen, and one in the dress of a lay brother. I expected to see Sister Catherine, but she was not there, though I am sure I heard her voice. Not a word was said till my bonds were unloosed, and I was set down on a rude bench. Then the priest addressed me:

"Rosamond Corbet! Miserable apostate and perjured nun that you are, your spiritual superiors are still anxious to save you from the fate you have prepared for yourself. Therefore they have brought you to this holy place. You may yet repent—may yet return to the home from which you have wandered, may resume your former place, and even rise to high honor and trust therein."

Here I distinctly heard a contemptuous sniff, from the neighborhood of the door, and I knew that Sister Catherine was at her old tricks. I was about to speak, but was sternly silenced.

"Listen, while there is time, to the terms of mercy," said the priest. "We are willing to receive you on these conditions. You shall write with your own hands a letter to the Bishop, declaring that you were coerced into your marriage, and have taken the first opportunity to escape therefrom. You shall also say that you had been already secretly professed, before you went home. There are abundance of people to bear witness that you had all the privileges and duties of one of the professed, being constantly present at 'obedience,' and having charges of importance laid upon you, such as are proper only to the Sisters. It will thus be easy to procure the annulling of your so-called marriage, and after a time of seclusion and penance, which I promise you shall be made as light as possible, you may again take your place as an honored member of this holy family."

"And if I refuse?" said I.

For all answer he pointed to a niche, beside which were laid tools, bricks and mortar.

"You dare not award me such a fate!" said I. "My kinsmen and my husband would fearfully avenge me."

"Your kinsmen and your husband believe you to be carried off by pirates," was the answer. "They will be seeking you on the seas and among the Turks, while your bones are mouldering, under these walls."

I saw, as in a flash of lightning, all the horrid helplessness of my position, but my courage did not give way.

"Answer me one thing," said I. "Does Mother Superior know that I am here? Has she any share in this plot?"

"No," answered the priest, after a moment's hesitation. "She is not here. She has been called to Exeter, to attend a Chapter of the order, and will probably be placed at the head of a house in that place."

Again I heard Sister Catherine's sniff of contempt.

"And how much time do you give me to decide this matter?" I asked again.

"We might justly require you to decide on the instant," answered the priest, "but in pity to your soul, and because we hope that solitude and prayer may bring you to a better mind, we give you a week, in which to consider. This Sister will bring you food and water, but presume not to speak to her, or to make any noise, on pain of being removed to a worse place. Contemplate that cell—your living grave—think of what a life of usefulness and happiness may yet be yours—and we have good hope that you will return to a better mind."

He seemed to wait for me to speak, but I only bowed my head, and they presently withdrew, leaving me alone, to consider of the infamous propositions they had made me, in presence of that awful token of the fate that awaited me, should I refuse to comply. Then my strength gave way all at once. I sank on the damp ground in a kind of swoon, which I think passed into sleep.

I was waked at last by the sound of the chapel bell, calling the Sisters to early prayers, and found myself not wholly in darkness. There was a very small window, close to the ceiling of the deep vault, which admitted a ray of light. When my eyes grew more accustomed to the obscurity, I could see everything plainly. A heap of straw had been placed in one corner, and by it stood a coarse loaf and a pitcher of water. The rest of the vault was as I had last seen it, with some stone coffins, the occupants of which had long since mouldered into dust, some tattered remains of banners and winding-sheets, and one new leaden coffin, placed there not long since. I remembered that the Vernon family, or that branch of it to which our mother belonged, had a right of burial here. But by one of those niches in the wall, of which I have spoken, lay what had a grim significance, namely, a pile of bricks, some mortar, and building instruments.

A cold shudder ran through me at the sight. I fell on my knees, and with tears and sobs, besought to be saved from such a dreadful death, and to be restored to my husband. I also prayed for strength to suffer all that might come on me, without denying the truth; and I believe my prayer has been answered, for I now feel quite calm and strong. I have eaten and drank, and feel refreshed. I am determined not to yield, but to escape if possible. No Corbet did ever yet fear death, nor yet resign life without a struggle.

I have been making a close survey of my prison, and have found an inestimable treasure, namely, the remains of two great funeral torches, of black wax, overlooked and left, I suppose, at the time the leaden coffin was placed here. They are large and thick enough to give light for many hours. 'Tis a wonder the rats have not devoured them.

I have also cautiously tried the door of the vault, and find that it yields a little under my hands. Luckily (though that is hardly the word) I have both flint and steel in my pocket, in a Dutch tinder-box Master Jasper gave me. I have also a knife and scissors. 'Tis well they did not think to search me.

CHAPTER XLII.

Tremador, All Saints' Day, Nov. 1.        

WITH the other proofs of her care and kindness, my mother hath sent me a store of pens and paper, and I am minded to beguile my somewhat too abundant leisure, by setting down in order the account of my late wonderful escape.

Magdalen and Grace take off my hands the whole care of our little household, and I have hitherto been only too glad to rest, and let them wait upon me; but my spirits and strength are recovering themselves sooner and more easily than I could have thought possible, after such a shock.

I left off my memoranda at the point where I had found the remnants of funeral torches. All that day and night, as I had opportunity, I carefully, and without noise, worked the door back and forward, finding that it yielded more and more at every effort. I knew it led only to the stairs, and that between me and freedom there still lay the heavy upper door, with its bolts and bars, and the convent walls; but I had something else in view. I remembered the ruined staircase leading upward, and this, if it were possible to scale it, I meant to explore.

Toward night came two veiled figures, bringing me bread and water. I heard the door unlock at the head of the stairs, and took pains to be at the farther end of the vault, lying on my bed of straw.

"So!" whispered one of my visitors, while the other's back was turned. "So this is something of a change from waiting on queens and being the favorite of superiors. But I ever knew to what it would come."

I am almost ashamed to write it, but my fingers did tingle to pull the veil from her face and cuff her ears soundly. But I made her no answer, and did not even look up till they left me. I waited till the clock told eleven, and then lighted my torch, taking care to shade it well from the little window, and begun my labors once more at the door. And here befel a wondrous piece of good luck; for as I fumbled at the lock, I touched a knob which yielded under my grasp, a little trap fell inward, and a space was opened through which I easily put my hand and pushed back the bolt.

I remember having heard of the devotion of some of our Sisters in olden times, who used to have themselves bolted into this underground chapel for a day and a night of watching and prayer. Mayhap this trap was made for their convenience, if they did at any time tire of their solitude. Be that as it may, I joyfully opened the door and ascended the stairs. The upper door was fast, and would not yield an inch to all my efforts; so I turned my attention to the half ruined stairway.

The moon, nearly at full, shone through the window slits, and made light enough for me to see where to place my feet; and with hard climbing, and some peril, I reached the top. Lo, there a trap door with rusted iron grates, which gave way without much trouble; and I found myself on the top of the tower whereof I have spoken before.

Keeping my head well down, I crept to the battlements and looked over. The tower joined and formed part of the outer wall, and was covered by luxuriant ivy of a century's growth, for aught I know. As I lay here, breathing with transport the fresh air of heaven, I saw crouched below a dark figure, wrapped as it seemed in a cloak. They have set a guard, was my first sickening thought; but presently the person arose carefully and began to peer among the ivy leaves, and to feel cautiously with the hand. Then the face was raised, and the moon shining thereon, showed me features which I could never forget! I ventured to lean forward, and called softly:

"Magdalen!"

"My Lady Rosamond, is that you?" was the answer, in a joyful whisper. "I knew it—I felt you were here. But how have you got up there?"

"The question is, how I shall get down?" I said, with an odd inclination to laugh.

"Climb down by the ivy!" was the instant answer. "The main stem is on this side. 'Tis like a tree, and the wall is also rough. The distance is not great, even if you fall. But wait. Let them get to the midnight office, which is tolling even now."

I again lay down on the top of the tower, praying not so much in words as in will, for the strength and coolness needful. In a moment I heard the peal of the organ, and then Magdalen's voice, saying:

"Now—my Lady—now! Be cool and steady, there is no danger, thus far!"

Down I went, scrambling like a cat, and getting scratches and bruises the marks of which still remain. A high wind was blowing, with now and then a rush of rain, and our old mastiff in the garden was baying the moon in his usual dolorous fashion. I have many a time wished him hanged for those musical vigils of his, but now I was glad of anything to make a little more noise. It seemed an age ere I reached the ground, and I did get a fall at last, but I was up and in Magdalen's arms in an instant.

"Now for our best speed of foot!" said she. "Give me two hours' leave, and then let them do their worst. Can you walk?"

"Yes, run, if need be!" I answered.

"Then hasten after me!"

We soon gained the bank of a little brook, about a mile from the convent walls, and here Magdalen, bidding me look well to my feet, slipped into the bed of the stream. I followed her, and we made our way down the channel, despite the rushing water and rolling stones, till we reached the spot where the brook descended into a deep ravine.

"We may rest a moment, now!" said Magdalen. As she spoke, we clearly heard borne on the wind the sound of the convent bell, ringing as if an alarm.

"Can they have missed us already?" said I.

"Nay, they would hardly ring the bell if they had!" answered Magdalen.

As she spoke, a red gleam shot up, and was reflected on the tall spire of the church, increasing momently in brightness.

"The torch! The torch!" I exclaimed.

"What torch?" asked Magdalen.

I told her how I had found and lighted the remains of the funeral torch. I had left it propped up in the corner when I ascended the stairs, and doubtless it had fallen over on the ground, where the fragments of cere cloths and coffins, and the straw of my bed would be as tinder to the flame. I had set the shrine on fire!

"So much the better!" said Magdalen, coolly. "They will have their hands full enough for the next hour."

"Specially if the flame reaches the stores of fuel in the shed which joins the shrine!" I said. "I fear the whole will go!"

And a great pang seized my heart as I thought of the home where I was once so happy.

"Let it go," said Magdalen, bitterly. "It and its like have long enough cumbered the ground. But we must not tarry here, lady. Follow me—look well to your steps, and fear not."

We now descended into the ravine, through which the brook raved and roared, apparently filling the whole space at the bottom.

"There is a path, though of the narrowest!" said Magdalen, as we reached the bottom. "Tarry a little till I strike a light."

She lighted as she spoke a dark lantern, which she had carried, and showed me indeed a very narrow path; hardly wide enough for one, under the banks, which here became high and steep, towering in bare walls above our heads.

"This is our own Coombe Ashton stream," said she, "and would lead us homeward, but you must not venture hither till we find how the land lies."

The day had begun to dawn as we reached a projecting rock, beyond which there seemed to be no passing.

"Have faith still!" said Magdalen.

As she spoke, she stepped out on a stone in the bed of the stream, and then disappeared round the projection. In another moment I heard her voice:

"Now, my Lady, place your foot on that stone firmly, and give me your hand. Take time. The stream is swollen, but you can do it."

I obeyed almost blindly, for I was beginning to feel exhausted. She extended her hand—I caught it, and found myself drawn into a recess or cavern in the rock, of some size, screened above and below by the projecting cliffs.

"Thank God!" said Magdalen. "We may now rest for some hours. The king's bloodhounds would not track us hither, and I don't believe the wild beasts yonder will try. They will think doubtless that you have perished in the flames. 'Tis not the first time this cavern has sheltered the saints in time of persecution. It was mine own home for many days, and there are others like it on these wilds, known only to a few of the faithful."

As she spoke, she was heaping together some dried herbage in one corner, and she now bade me lie down, and covered me with the same. She then produced some dried flesh and a little flask of wine, and would have me eat and drink, setting herself the example.

"And now tell me, how is my husband?" said I.

"Well in health, but sore distressed in mind," was the answer. "He believes, as they all do, that you have been carried off by pirates."

"And how came you to think otherwise?" I asked again.

"For several reasons," she answered. "I had seen one that I knew for a priest, despite his secular dress, peeping and prying about the place, and I knew he had questioned the children as to your comings and goings. I had thought to warn you, but was too late. Then I did not believe a pirate would have taken such a roundabout course, or would have known the country so well, and—I cannot well tell you, but it was borne in on my mind that you were in mine old prison; and I was determined at least to find out. I had made up my mind to gain entrance as a pilgrim to the shrine above, and I had some precious relics wherewith to pay my way," she added, with a bitter smile.

"That would have been putting your head into the lion's mouth with a vengeance!" I said.

"Nay, they would not have known me. The Lady is away, and all who had ever seen me were dead, or in no case to recognize me. You know I never frequented the convent gates, and while I was a prisoner, no one saw me but that kind old woman who waited on me, and the old priest. Beside that, my stained face and gray hair would have been a good enough disguise. Then when I saw how thick the ivy grew on the old tower, it occurred to me that I might gain entrance in that way, and no thanks to any of them; and I was considering the matter when you called me. But how did you come to the top of the tower?"

I told her how it had chanced with me. "And what is to be done now?"

"That I cannot well say," she answered, "till we have consulted with your husband. I know not if it will be safe for you to return at once to your home?"

"O yes, let me go home!" I cried, as all at once the thought of Richard's anguish and hopelessness rushed over me. "Let me go home to my husband! He will know what to do."

And I tried to spring to my feet, but a strange dizziness seized me, and I sank backward almost fainting.

"You see you must rest," said Magdalen, as she once more produced her flask of wine, gave me to drink, and bathed my face with water. "You are utterly worn out, and no wonder. Do but remain quiet for a few hours, and then if you are able, we will go down to Coombe Ashton together."

I could not but allow that she was right; and the more, as I really was unable to stand without giddiness. Magdalen once more arranged my rough bed, and I sank into a sound sleep, from which I waked to hear the sound of voices; and raising myself on my elbow, I saw Magdalen in low but earnest converse with an elderly man, who looked like a shepherd. As I moved, she turned and hastened to my side.

"How is it with you, madam?"

"Why, well, I believe," I answered, "but who is this? Methinks I have seen the face before?"

"That have you, madam," answered the old man. "Do you not know your father's old herd, John Dean?"

I remembered him well as he spoke; an old man, and reported a very honest one, but unsocial and grave, who lived in a little cottage on the edge of the moorland. My mother and I had once taken refuge with him during a thunderstorm, and I recollected how we had both been struck with the manner and words of the man, as being much above what we should have expected. Seeing that I had my wits together again, and seemed rested, Magdalen explained her plans—namely, that I should walk as far as John Dean's cottage, from whence I could easily send word home.

"Or better still, let me bring the donkey to the hollow yonder, and then the Lady can ride," said John. "'Tis a rough way for her walking."

This was at last agreed on, and John hastened away, by what path I could not see.

"How came he here?" was my first question.

Magdalen hesitated. "If I tell you, Lady, I place his life and that of others in your hands. Yet you are now one of us, having suffered for the faith. You have heard of the Lollards?"

I told her I had, and of Wickliffe, who made an English Bible.

She told me "that ever since his day, there had been many of the faithful, both in England and in Scotland, who preserved their English Bibles and other books, and met in secret and wild places to read and study the same, and to pray and praise together. In the towns," said she, "we do know the faithful by certain private marks placed upon their dwellings; and we meet in inner chambers and cellars. In the country, we betake ourselves to dens and caves of the earth, like the faithful of old, and this is one of our meeting-places."

As she spoke, she displaced a stone in the cavern's side, and showed me a deep and dry recess, in which lay a great book, which she drew out and opened. It was an English Bible, not printed as we have them now, but written with the hand, and well preserved, though the leaves were dark with age, and some of them ready to fall to pieces through much handling.

"Those who could write among us made many copies of parts of these books, which were passed from hand to hand," said she. "But now, of late, we have had printed books from Germany—even the whole New Testament, such as that which your friend gave me."

"And is John Dean then one of your number?" I asked her.

"That is he, and one of the best," she answered me. "There are others scattered through this wild moorland country, and this cavern, where we have found refuge, is one of our meeting-places. Here also do we keep a supply of food and drink for any persecuted ones fleeing as a bird from the fowler, and it was on this business that John Dean came hither this morning."

I told her I trusted the day would come when every household in England should have the pure word of God in hand.

"God grant it!" said she. "One thing I know, that the religious houses and orders are growing less and less in favor with the people. Your convent yonder is of the best, and gives much in charity, nor did I ever hear of scandal within its walls as long as I have lived near it; yet if it were put down to-morrow, as some of the small houses have already been, I do not believe a hand would be raised in its defence."

[This proved true enough afterward. When the convent was put down, a few years later, and my husband purchased the lands and what remained of the buildings, he was fain to set a watch to keep the common people, who in the days of its prosperity had lived on its alms, from stealing the very leads and woodwork. Yet our house was one of the best—free from gross scandal, and always spending a great part of its large revenue in almsgiving. The truth is that the convents, by this very almsgiving, did engender and encourage about them a kind of idleness and careless living, which are the very parents of all ill—a basilisk brood, ready to devour their mother.]

As we whiled away the time with such discourse, John Dean once more made his appearance, and signified that all was ready. I found myself very weak and stiff when I tried to move, but the hope of soon meeting my husband gave me strength, and I was able to accomplish the scramble up the bank to the place where the donkey was tethered. Right glad was I to reach the good man's cottage, and to lay my wearied limbs on his bed. Here I again fell into a deep sleep, or rather lethargy, from which I was wakened (oh, blissful wakening!) by my husband's voice and embrace. The good old herd had sallied forth once more, made his way to my father's house as the nearest place, and came in upon the assembled family with the news that the lost was found!

That evening found me safe in my father's house, which I had thought never to see again. At first my Lord and my father were for keeping no terms with my abductors. They should learn that in these days a lady of family was not to be carried off in that high-handed way. But by degrees calmer counsels prevailed. It was thought that for their own sake my persecutors would keep quiet, specially as they would doubtless believe me to have perished in the flames: but the accusation of heresy was an ugly thing, and might be revived at any time. After due consideration, it was thought best that Richard and myself should for the present retire to this our estate of Tremador, where, surrounded by our own dependants, and with no religious house near to spy upon us, we might think ourselves safe till those at home should see how matters would turn.

Hither then have we come, bringing with us for sole attendant Magdalen Jewell, to whom I owe more than life. She is my own personal attendant, while Grace rules the household, as usual. 'Tis a kind of exile, to be sure, yet a most calm and happy one. I am recovering my health, which was sorely shaken by my fatigue and exposure, and hope soon to go about the house and to take some order about the dame school, which our good Father Paul so much desires.

The story goes at home among our servants and neighbors, that I was really taken by pirates and then abandoned on the waste, in some great danger, from which I was rescued by John Dean and Magdalen, and we do not contradict the tale. My mother writes me that the shrine of St. Ethelburga was all consumed, save the bare walls, and also the sheds of fuel and the offices. The main building also was much injured, but was saved.

I know not how long we shall remain here, but I am quite content, though we have no society but our own and Cousin Joslyn's. The estate is large, and Richard can find enough to do, so that time shall not hang heavy on his hands, and we have a constant resource in the study of God's word. I can't but hope the time will come when we may return home without danger, but meantime I am quite content.

CHAPTER XLIII.

Stanton Court, May 12, 1590.        

IT was but the other day that in looking over my papers and books (for I am an old woman, and must needs be thinking of setting my house in such order as I would leave it), I came upon this volume, containing the record of my girlish days. I have had much pleasure in perusing it, and thus going back to the days of my childhood and youth.

I have lived to see great changes. In this land, where I was once so near to being a nun, there lingers hardly one religious house, so-called. The Scripture, then a hid treasure, is now in reach of all, taught even in dame schools, and read in all the churches, and we have peace at home and abroad, sitting every man under his own vine and fig-tree, with none to make us afraid.

The Spanish Armada, which did so threaten us last year, is dispersed like a summer cloud, albeit the dispersion thereof did cost me a dear nephew, and I may say my last daughter also, for I have little hope that my dearest Mary will long survive her husband, my brother's second son, who died of his wounds at Plymouth after the victory. But she cannot, in course of nature, long precede her father and mother. My husband is yet strong and hearty for one of his age, and I myself am as vigorous as a woman of my years can expect to be.

My eldest granddaughter, an orphan, and some time a care from her delicacy, is grown a fine woman, and betrothed to her cousin Corbet, my great nephew and her second cousin. 'Twas not altogether with my will, I confess. There have been too many mixtures of the blood already, yet they have loved each other almost from childhood, as did Richard and myself, and I cannot reasonably oppose the match. 'Tis for her, always near and dear as a daughter, that I have taken on me to arrange these memorials, and for her sake I add a few words.

My father and his second wife lived to see Richard Earl of Stanton, my Lord having died unmarried not long after the death of his Lady and her child, which chanced close together. My mother survived her husband for many years, living most happily with her step-son and his wife Joyce, whom she had brought up under her own eye.

On the suppression of the convents, which took place under my Lord Cromwell, my husband had a grant from the king of the lands of our priory here, not however without paying a round sum for the same. He also bought the house and lands belonging to my old convent, and bestowed them in endowing a boys' and a girls' school in our village, and in rebuilding certain almshouses which have existed here from very early times.

Most of our Sisters had homes to which they returned. Sister Catherine was one of the first and loudest to be convinced of the error of her ways, and related more scandals than I care to record concerning our manner of life. But she was ever a hypocrite in grain, seeking naught but her own advancement. Our Mother was at last left almost alone, with nobody but Sister Placida, and one young maid, an orphan. Sister Placida chose to go abroad, to a convent of our order in France, and we supplied her the means to do so. Our Mother would fain have done the same, but we persuaded her to try abiding with us for a year, and she found herself so well content that she remained the rest of her life, save for some few years, during the unhappy reign of Queen Mary, when she betook herself to a convent in London, but returned to us again when the house was broken up. She was not fond of talking about it, and I don't think she found the return to her old life either as pleasant or as edifying as she expected. She lived to a great age, and though she never in words renounced her old faith, yet during her later years she attended our family devotions, and spent much time in the study of the Scriptures.

I never saw and one more amazed than she was when I told her the secret of the fire which destroyed the shrine of St. Ethelburga, for, as I believed at the time, she had no knowledge of the plot which had so nearly destroyed me. She was absent, even as the priest told me, at a chapter in Exeter, and they thought to complete their work and remove all its traces before her return. Nay, I have always believed that but for their signal and most unexpected discomfiture, she herself might have been the next victim, for she had more than one bitter enemy in the house, specially in Sister Catherine, who never forgave her humiliation, and who afterward bruited some shameful scandals about dear Mother and the rest of the family.

As I always suspected, 'twas Prudence who was the first cause of mine arrest, she giving information to Father Barnaby concerning what she called mine apostasy. She travelled the land afterwards as a pilgrim, visiting various holy places, and trafficking in relics, till at last Richard and I being on a journey, found her set in the stocks as a vagrant, and in evil case enow. We procured her release, and took her to a place of shelter, where she died, as I trust, penitent. She confessed to her treachery, and told me of many instances, wherein she had abused my dear mother's ear with false tales. And yet she persisted to the last, and as I believe truly, that she acted as she did out of love to my soul, and as she said, to give me a last chance.

As I have said, my husband bought the church lands about here, and likewise the site of our old convent, which last he gave for the endowment of our boys' and girls' schools in this village. *

No doubt there was much injustice and greed in the way the convents and religious foundations were put down, and good and bad were often involved in one common ruin. Yet I do believe the suppression of the convents wrought good in the end. Such a life as theirs is utterly without warrant in Scripture or reason. 'Tis clean against nature too, and it could not be but that great disorders should grow out of it. The very almsgiving, whereof so much was made, did foster a swarm of beggars and idlers, and since, in the nature of things, but little discretion could be used by those who never saw the folk at their own homes, the most impudent and worthless fared the best. I believe our house was better than the general run. There was no open scandal in my time, at least, and all were kindly treated; yet I would sooner see a daughter of mine in her coffin than doomed to such a living death.

* They are called Lady Rosamond's schools to this day. I would all convent lands had been as well bestowed.—D. C.

I leave this book to my eldest daughter, Amy Rosamond Champernoun, daughter of Sir David Champernoun, and my second daughter Rosamond, and betrothed bride of my great nephew Henry Corbet, captain of her Majesty's ship the Grayhound. I beseech her to transmit the same to her eldest daughter, or failing that, to the female descendant of our line whom she may judge most fit to have the same.

ROSAMOND STANTON.

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