I SHALL never forget that beginning. It was like the lightning flash, which always comes suddenly, albeit one may have seen the clouds gathering for hours, and even have heard distant growls and mutterings of thunder. Of such growls and mutterings there had indeed been a plenty when I was quite a little maid, living with my kinswoman, Lady Peckham, in Somersetshire. I remember well my lady's wrath and consternation at hearing that my Lord Cardinal had put down some thirty or more of the small religious houses, especially convents of nuns, and had confiscated their revenues to the endowment of his grand college foundation at Oxford. There was no talk of pensions and sustenance for old or young. The poor souls were turned adrift to shift as best they might. If my Lord Cardinal were alive to see the havoc that hath been made since, he might bethink himself (if he ever happened to hear it) of a certain pithy proverb about showing the cat the way to the cream. The cat hath lapped the cream pretty clean in these days.

I had a personal interest in that same measure of my Lord Cardinal, seeing I was myself destined for one of those very convents, a small, but reputable house of Gray Nuns, not far from Bridgewater. I was the daughter of a kinsman of my Lady Peckham's first husband, and being left an orphan of tender years and wholly without provision, my lady charitably took me into her protection and care, and gave me a home, intending to bring me up till such age as I should be fit to make a profession. But the convent was suppressed, as I have said, and so that cake was dough. The sisters—there were not more than eighteen or twenty in all—found places where they could. Some went to their friends, some to other houses of the same order. One went to live in the family of a master baker in Bridgewater, where she afterward married. I saw her not long since, a fine stately old dame, and a great blessing to her own family as well as to the poor of the town. One—Sister Benedict—came to stay with my lady till she could find suitable convoy to another house of Bernardines not far from London.

I don't think that in her secret heart my lady was very sorry to have an excuse for keeping me with her a while longer. I had grown a handy little maid, tall of my age, and having no daughters of her own, it was but natural she should take to me, especially as I was very fond of her. I liked nothing better than to follow her around like a little dog, carrying her basket or her keys, and running with good will to do her errands about the house and garden. I believe I might have done the same as long as I lived, only for Sister Benedict, who came to stay with us, as I said, and who must needs put her finger in the pie.

My lady had a son by her first marriage—Walter Corbet by name—who was destined by his mother for holy orders. He was several years older than I, and we were great friends, as was but natural. He helped me in my lessons, specially in my Latin, which I learned with him of Sir John Watson, our kind old parish priest and domestic chaplain, and fought my battles and those of my pet cats against Randall Peckham who, though not a bad lad in the main, was rather too fond of teasing.

Poor Randall was sent to Oxford, where he went altogether to the bad, ran away leaving more than a hundred pounds of debt behind him, and (so we heard) was cast away on a ship going to Holland. He was his mother's pride and darling, and her heart was almost broken. I have always believed, ever since I was old enough to think about the matter, that Sister Benedict persuaded my lady that her holding back Walter and myself from that service to which we had been promised had brought this judgment upon her.

Walter declared that, though he might consent to be a parish priest, he would never be a monk, and he was one not easy to be moved when once his mind was made up, though he never stuck out about trifles—not like poor Randall, who could be coaxed or flattered out of any principles he ever had, while he would be obstinate even to folly about the trimming of a glove, or the management of a hawk. So my lady was fain to compromise the matter, and Walter was sent to Bridgewater to study with Sir Richard Lambert, a very learned priest with a great reputation for sanctity. (Of course I did not know all this at the time, being but a child.)

I was sent away with Sister Benedict, to go to my father's brother, a rich merchant in London, trading to the Low Countries. That was the story. Sir Edward had all along been opposed to bestowing me in a convent, and after the suppression of the Gray Nuns' house, he had spoken his mind freely to my lady, saying that he would not have me disposed of in that way without my own consent, and that no more should be said about the matter till I was of age to judge for myself. My lady seemed to acquiesce, as indeed she always did on the rare occasions when Sir Edward asserted his will, and I suppose she might really be glad of the excuse to keep me at home, for, as I have said, she liked to have me about her.

But Sir Edward went away, being sent to Scotland on public business by the King, and Sister Benedict came, and the upshot of the matter was, that I was sent to London to see my uncle and little cousins. As soon as Sister Benedict could make proper arrangements, I was to be transferred to the convent of Bernardines at Dartford, a very rich and reputable house. I don't think it was meant that I should know this, but my lady's woman let the cat out of the bag, and my lady, finding I knew so much, told me the rest herself—so I knew what to look for.

The journey to London was longer and harder then than now, and very dangerous withal. But my Lord Abbot of Glastonbury, who was Sister Benedict's uncle, was going up to town with a great following, and we traveled in his train; so we escaped the dangers of the road, and met with far more consideration than we should otherwise have done. Nevertheless, I remember that Sister Benedict was highly indignant at certain instances of disrespect shown to her uncle by the gentry and others whom we met, and mourned over the degeneracy of the times. The truth was, the thunder-cloud was even then lying low in the sky, and men felt its influence as dumb creatures do that of a natural storm before it comes.

Well, we reached London at last, and glad was I when our journey was done, though sorry to part with Sister Benedict, who, her point once gained, was very kind to me. However, I had so much to engage my attention that I did not feel the parting so deeply as might perhaps have been expected.

Mine uncle lived in Portsoken ward, in a very fine house built by his grandfather, but greatly enlarged and embellished by his father and himself. It had a large courtyard, and a garden at the back, wherein were some huge apple trees and a great standard pear tree, besides others for shade and beauty. All the Corbets are fond of gardening, and my Uncle Gabriel was no exception to the rule. At that time (and I suppose the same is true now) the great merchants of London lived very handsomely, and enjoyed many luxuries which had not been so much as heard of in our remote corner of the world. I was met at the door by a most lovely old lady, who kissed me on both cheeks, and informed me that she was my great-aunt, my Grandfather Corbet's sister.

"And so you are poor Richard's child! I remember him well, a little lad no bigger than you, if as big. You don't favor him greatly, and yet there is a Corbet look about you, too. What was your mother's name?"

I managed to say that it was Loveday Carey.

"Yes, yes, I remember. And how old are you? But never mind now. You must need refreshment after your long journey, but I suppose you have not come very far to-day."

She led me by the hand toward the foot of a grand staircase, far finer than that at Peckham Hall; but as we reached it, I started back in utter dismay from what I conceived to be no less than the devil himself—namely, the figure of a man black as ebony, and rather fantastically dressed, who stood bowing and showing his white teeth in a manner which seemed to me to warrant the conclusion that I was instantly to be devoured. I clung to my aunt's arm, and uttered, I suppose, some exclamation of dismay. My terror seemed greatly to amuse the creature, which now giggled outright.

"What is it?" said my aunt, as I let go of her hand and retreated behind her.

"The black man!" I faltered.

"Oh, poor Sambo? I suppose you never saw a blackamoor before. But don't be frightened, child. He is a human creature like ourselves, and hath kind heart, and is a good Christian, too; are you not, Sambo?"

Thereupon the negro made the sign of the cross, and showed me a crucifix which hung about his neck.

"You will soon learn to like him as well as our children do," said my aunt. "Go, Sambo, and bring up the young lady's mails."

Sambo grinned again wider than ever, and betook himself to the side door, where an attendant of my Lord Abbot's was waiting with my baggage.

Thus reassured, I ventured to pass him, and followed my aunt up the stairs into the very finest room I had ever seen. My uncle's house is built with the upper stories projecting over the lower. I always had a fancy that it was leaning over to look down the street. There was a great oriel window, with many panes of stained glass, which formed a deep recess. On the floor of this recess lay a beautiful carpet, such an one as I had never seen before. I could not conceive how such a beautiful fabric chanced to be in such a situation, for the two or three Turkey rugs we possessed at Peckham house were used as coverings for tables and beds. A great East country cabinet stood in this recess, and before it a carved arm-chair. The walls of the room were hung with Spanish leather most curiously wrought with gold and silver figures; the furniture was partly of damask and partly of Cordovan leather. At the other end of the apartment was a second large window looking upon the street, as the first did upon the garden. Here stood a low chair, and a basket piled up with homely household work.

"This is my place!" said Aunt Joyce—so she bade me call her. "And now I will call your cousins to take you to your own room, where you will find your mails, and they will help you to change your traveling dress, that you may be neat when my nephew comes home to dinner at eleven. We all dine together, though I doubt such late hours are not very good for the health of the young ones. When I was young, I never dined later than nine o'clock, nor thought of sitting at table with my parents. But times are changed—times are changed—and my nephew hath a right to command in his own house."

I began to wonder when she was going to stop talking long enough to call my cousins, but at last she blew her silver whistle, which hung with her keys at her girdle, and presently two pretty little girls, some years older than myself, made their appearance, and were introduced to me as my cousins, Avice and Katherine. They were twins, and more alike than any two people I ever saw. They were wonderfully fair, with thick, soft, curling hair of the color of new flax, or a thought yellower; clear, transparent gray eyes, and a lovely bloom on their cheeks. I fell in love with them on the instant. They only courtesied when presented to me, and, giving me each a hand, led me away.

As we passed a great Venice glass, I remember being struck with the difference in our looks, for I was ever a true Corbet, with the great dark eyes, level black brows, and crisp hair of my race—a regular black Corby, as poor Randall used to call me.

The twins led me up the staircase and into a room furnished with blue, where were two little beds and a truckle for a servant. Out of this opened a large light closet, where I found my mails. As soon as we were alone, the girls found their tongues.

"We are glad you have come to live with us!" said Avice, who was always the first speaker, and indeed took the lead in every thing, as I found out afterward.

"Yes, we are very glad, because it will be like having our sister again!" said Katherine.

"A little like it!" said Avice. And then, seeming to feel she had hurt my feelings, she added—

"You know nobody can be quite like one's own sister, but I am sure we shall love you, Cousin Loveday!"

"And I am sure I shall love you!" I returned warmly. And then I ventured to ask: "Did you have another sister, and is she dead?"

"Yes!" said Avice, with a quivering lip. "She was a beautiful little girl, and she looked a little like you, for she had dark hair and eyes. But she fell into the chincough, and then into a long waste, and died in spite of all that could be done."

"But she has gone to paradise—I am sure she has, and we shall see her again some day," added Katherine, her eyes shining with a kind of steadfast light. "I could not bear it, only for thinking of that."

There was a little silence, and then Avice asked me how old I was.

"I shall be nine years old come Michaelmas—and you?"

"We shall be twelve on Midsummer day. Can you read, cousin?"

"Oh yes!" I answered, not without a little feeling of vain-glory, I dare say. "I can read and write, and I have begun Latin."

"We can read and write a little, but not well;" and then followed a comparison of accomplishments.

And soon I found I had nothing whereof to boast, since my cousins could play on the lute and the virginals, embroider in all sorts of stitches, and even knit—an art which I had only heard of at that time, as practiced in that same convent of Gray Nuns whose dissolution had sent me to London. We grew excellent friends over all these inquiries and answers, and when we were called down to dinner we descended the stairs, not hand in hand, but with our arms round each other's waists.

We went down to the ground floor this time, and I was led into a great dining-room where was a table splendidly set out—or so it seemed to my unaccustomed eyes—with snowy napery, silver and fine colored ware, such as I had never seen. They were, in fact, china dishes, then only beginning to be used by the wealthy merchants of London and the Low Countries. Sambo and one or two 'prentice lads were just placing the dinner on the table, and my uncle was standing by the window, looking out upon the garden, now all ablaze with flowers, many of which were new to me.

He turned round as I entered, and showed me one of the handsomest and kindest faces I ever beheld in my life. He was a man in middle life, tall and somewhat stout, though not unbecomingly so, with curling brown hair, a little touched with gray at the temples, large gray eyes with very long lashes, and a chestnut beard trimmed in the fashion of the day. He was richly but soberly dressed, and I noticed even then the whiteness and fineness of his linen. Sea-coal was not used in London then as much as now, and it was easier to keep clean.

"So this is my little niece, is it?" said he, kindly raising me and bending down to kiss my forehead as I kneeled to ask his blessing. "You are welcome, my dear child. May the God of thy fathers bless thee."

Even then there was something in my uncle's tone which struck me—a peculiar solemnity and earnestness, quite different from the business-like, rapid fashion in which Father Barnaby and our own Sir John used to go through the same form. It seemed as if he were really speaking to some one. He caused me to sit at his right hand, and helped me bountifully from the dish of roast fowls which stood before him. The dinner was elegantly served, and Sambo showed such skill in waiting on his master, and such alacrity in helping me to sweetmeats that I found my dislike to him sensibly diminishing.

Of course we children did not speak at the table, and indeed I was too busy making my remarks on all I saw to care even for eating. I admired the china dishes, so hard and light and so beautifully painted; the clear glass and finely wrought silver; and I once or twice really forgot to eat in gazing through the great glass window at the flower garden.

"You are looking at the flowers!" said my uncle. "After dinner we will go and see them nearer."

At that moment something made an odd scratching noise on the glass door which led into the garden. Sambo looked at his master, who smiled and nodded. He opened the door and in walked a stately creature, which I should hardly have guessed to be a mere cat, only for his loud musical purr. He was immensely large, and had fur that almost dragged on the ground, a bushy tail, and a mane or collar of much longer fur round his neck, and as he was of a yellowish color, he looked not unlike a little lion. He marched up to my uncle's side, where Sambo had already set a joint-stool for his accommodation, but seeing a stranger at table, he turned and greeted me with great politeness, rubbing his head on my arm as if to invite my caresses.

"Do not be afraid," said my uncle, seeing me shrink a little, for indeed the creature's great size and strength made him somewhat formidable to a stranger. "He is the best-tempered fellow in the world, and a famous playmate, as you will soon find out."

Hearing this, and seeing the cat was evidently a favorite of my uncle's, I ventured—having finished my dinner—to stroke him, an attention which he received with condescending kindness. My aunt poured some cream into a saucer, and Turk drank it as calmly as if it were a matter of course—as indeed it was for him—to sit at table and eat cream.

"Loveday opens her eyes!" said my aunt. "I dare say she never saw a cat sit at table and be served like a Christian before. Do you like pets, Niece Loveday?"

"Yes, madam!" I answered, and indeed I had a kind of passion for them, which I had heretofore gratified almost on the sly, for my Lady Peckham did not like pet animals of any kind.

"That is well, for we have plenty of them," said my aunt. "Sambo must show you his popinjay."

Sambo bowed, and grinned till his face seemed all white teeth.

"There, run away, children, and play in the garden if you like!" said my uncle. "Take Loveday to see the flowers."

We went out into the garden, and the girls showed me many lovely flowers, such as I had never seen before.

"My father trades with the Dutch merchants, who bring all sorts of curious plants from the Indies," said Katherine. "That is the way we got our cat and Sambo."

"Father bought Sambo from a man who treated him cruelly," added Avice. "When he first came here he was a heathen, but my aunt has taught him better, and now he can say his paternoster and creed in English. We all like him because he is so droll and so kind. My Lord Cardinal wanted him for a fool, but my father would not give him up."

"I never saw a black man before," said I. "I did not know there were such things, and when I first saw him I thought it was the evil one himself."

"Some of our neighbors believe he is not quite right," observed Katherine, "but he is as good a Christian as any one."

"Better than some, because he is grateful!" said Avice. "Come, now, and we will show you the last new tree our father got from foreign parts. There is not another in the country, and we are in a great hurry to have it bloom, that we may see what the flowers are like."

I duly admired the foreign tree, or shrub, which had thick, glossy loaves, and on which the flower buds were just forming, and then, Turk appearing and putting in a claim for notice, we had a great frolic with him, and found him an excellent playfellow, as my uncle had said.

When we went into the house, my aunt called me up stairs and showed me my clothes neatly arranged in a press, while a small blue bed, like my cousins', was being put up for me in the light closet I have mentioned.

"This will be your room as long as you stay here," said she. "Let me see that you keep it neat and orderly, as a young maid should."

I courtesied, and said I would do my best. The little room was very pretty, and even luxurious, in my eyes. There were no rushes on the floor, such as I had been used to seeing—and I now perceived, for the first time, what it was that made the floors all over the house seem so strange and bare to me.

"That is one of my nephew's new-fangled ways, as old Dame Madge calls them," pursued my aunt. "He learned it in Holland among the Dutch, who are the cleanest folks in the world."

"Yes, new-fangled ways," muttered the old dame, who was mending somewhat about my bed curtains. "It was never a good world since these new ways came up. But we shall see—we shall see!"

"I must needs allow that the air in the house is much sweeter since we disused the rushes, which are a great cover for dirt and vermin," pursued my aunt; "though it makes a great deal of work, washing and polishing the floors."

"I noticed how sweet the house smelled," I ventured to say. "I think the floors look pretty, only—" and then I stopped in some confusion, as it occurred to me that I was making very free.

"Well, only what?" asked my aunt.

"Only it seems a pity to see such fine rugs laid down to be walked on," I answered. "We had only two at Peckham Hall, and one was on the state bed and the other on my lady's own."

"You are an observing child. Sambo says the Turks use these rugs just as my brother does, and that they kneel on them to say their prayers—poor, deluded creatures."

My aunt chatted on, and I stood by her side, well content to listen to her and answer her questions. She had a remarkable way of putting every one at their ease, both gentle and simple. We never had a new housemaid or 'prentice who did not at once fall in love with Mistress Holland.

"You must not mind if Dame Madge is a little crabbed sometimes!" said my aunt, as the old woman left the room. "She is jealous of all newcomers, and would fain keep the favor of master and mistress altogether to herself. There, now, all is done, I believe," she added, as she hung a holy water basin and crucifix at the head of the bed. "I hope you will be happy here, my child."

"I am sure I shall!" I answered, with perfect sincerity, and then, all at once, I remembered that this pleasant house was not my home after all—that in a few days Mother Benedict would probably come and carry me off to that fate which had been waiting for me all my life. I suppose my face showed my thoughts, for my aunt noticed the change—as what did she not notice which concerned the comfort of others—and asked me what was the matter.

"It is a change for you, I know, but you must try not to be homesick."

"I am not homesick!" I answered. "Only—" and then I dropped on my knees, hid my face in my aunt's lap and burst out crying. I don't know what made me. I should never have thought of such a thing with my lady, who, though always kind, did never invite my caresses.

"What is it, dear heart? What makes thee cry? Tell Aunt Joyce what ails thee, my dear, tender lamb, now do?" said my aunt, who was apt, in times of interest, to return to her native Devon. I remember, as though it were yesterday, how sweetly sounded in mine ears the homely accent, and the words of endearment which I suppose might find some echo in my childish remembrance. Sure 'tis a cruel thing to deprive young creatures of those caresses which even the dumb beasts bestow upon their young. I have always thought that if my lady had been more tender and gentle with poor Randall, he might have been different.

"Only I can't stay here!" I sobbed at last. "Pretty soon Mother Benedict will send or come for me, and I shall have to go to the convent, to be shut up and never see any body, or run in the fields any more, and to wear a horrid gray robe, and a veil—" and here I broke down again.

"My child, I think you are borrowing trouble!" said my aunt, with a perplexed look. "I thought you were coming to live with us. I heard nothing about any convent."

"But I am to go to the convent!" I answered. "My lady said so."

"Well, well, we will talk to my nephew about it!" said my aunt. "Don't cry any more, there's a lamb, but wash your face and come down stairs with me, and by and by we will go and take a walk in the fields and see the old people in the almshouses. Can you sew?"

"Oh yes, aunt!"

"Then you shall help me a little, if you will. I am making some napkins of old worn linen for one of the bedeswomen who has watering eyes, and you shall hem one for me. As for the convent, I would not trouble about that just now, at any rate. It will be time enough when you have to go there."

Somewhat comforted, I washed away the traces of my tears with the rosewater my aunt gave me, and followed her down stairs to the parlor, where my cousins were already sitting, the one at her sampler, the other at her lute, which she played very prettily for a child.

If my aunt was in a hurry for the napkins she gave me to hem, she did not act wisely in seating me at the window, for I saw so much to observe and admire that my work went on but slowly. But I suppose her object was rather to divert me from my grief, and in that she certainly succeeded. Now it was some gay nobleman of the court with two or three attendants, all glittering in gold and embroidery who passed by—now a showman with a tame jackanape or a dancing bear—then a priest under a gorgeous canopy, carrying the host in its splendid receptacle to some dying person.

I can't pretend to recite all the wonderful things I saw. I could not help wondering where all the people found lodging, and how they found their way home at night. Now London is far more crowded than it was then, and it increases all the time, despite the laws made to check the growth of large towns. But I do not think it can ever be much larger than it is at present.

[CHAPTER II.]

MORE REMEMBRANCES.

ABOUT four o'clock my uncle came in from his business, and we had each a bun and somewhat else—at least we young ones did—for my uncle never ate between dinner and supper. He greeted me kindly, asked how I had passed my day, looked at and commended my work and that of his daughters, and asked them if they had somewhat to repeat to him. Whereat Katherine recited the twenty-third psalm in English, and Avice a part of the hundred and nineteenth.

"And what can my little niece say for me?" he asked.

"I can say the penitential psalms in Latin," I answered; "but I do not know them in English."

"Then you shall read a little for me instead," said he; and drawing me to his side he took from his desk a bound book, and turning over the leaves, he pointed out a passage, which I read. It was new and strange to me, for it talked of God's care for flowers and little fowls, and bade men consider that, as they were worth much more than these things, so our Heavenly Father would provide for all our needs. It ended thus:

"Care not therfore for the daye foloynge. For the daye foloynge shall care ffor yt sylfe. Eche dayes trouble ys sufficient for the same silfe day."

"Do you know whose words these are?" asked my uncle, as I finished.

"No, uncle," I answered.

"They are our dear Lord's own words," said he, "and spoken for our comfort. Do not you forget them."

"I suppose Our Lady made Him say them!" I ventured to remark.

"No, dear child. Our Lord needs no one to make Him send us comfort and help, since He himself loves us, and died to redeem us. Never doubt his love, my child. That never fails those who seek him, and even though he leads them through dark and troubled waters—nay, even through the very fiery furnace—it is but to guide them to his rest at last."

I saw my aunt sigh at these words, as if they had some meaning more than met the ear. For my own part, they filled me with amazement. I had always been taught to think of our Lord as a harsh and severe judge, who relented toward us—when he did relent—only at the intercession, or rather commands, of Our Lady, his mother. It seemed very strange; but I was presently diverted from the consideration thereof by my uncle's next words.

"Did my Lady Peckham send me no letter by you, dear child?"

"Oh, yes, uncle!" I answered, remembering all at once the packet my lady had placed among my things, with a strict injunction to deliver it to Master Gabriel Corbet directly on my arrival. I ran up to my room, and finding the package safe and sound in my book of Hours, where it had been laid for safe keeping, I brought it down and put it into my uncle's hand. He cut the band of floss silk which confined it, and was soon engaged in its perusal. Seeing, I suppose, that I was watching his face, my aunt directed my attention to some pageant passing in the street. My eyes, however, soon stole back to my uncle's face, and I was startled to see the change and the look of grief which had come over it. Forgetting all decorum in my anxiety, I cried out:

"Oh, uncle, must I go to the convent? I will be so good if you will only let me stay here."

Katherine and Avice looked scared, and so was I when I bethought me of what I had done. My uncle, however, did not seem angry. On the contrary, he put out his hand and drew me toward him.

"Listen to me, Loveday, and you also, my children, and learn what it costs to nourish a grudge," said he. "When we were both young, my brother and I quarreled. No matter about what. I thought myself wholly the injured party, and, despite all our good mother's efforts, I would not be reconciled. So my brother, who was the younger of us two, after vainly trying to bring me to a better mind, betook himself with his young wife to a little estate in the west country, which had been left him by a kinsman."

"More than once did he send overtures for a reconciliation, but I—miserable sinner that I was—would not even read his letters. Meantime he, riding home from market, was set upon by robbers and miserably murdered. A brother of the kinsman who left him the estate started up with a claim which was made good, by the help of some great man his patron. My sister died from the effects of grief, and this poor child was thrown upon the world without a protector, and but for the kindness of my Lady Peckham, whose husband was her kinsman, she might have grown up a wretched, forlorn beggar."

"I humbly thank my dearest Lord," and here he raised his cap, "who hath both granted me conviction of sin and His forgiveness for the same; but He, like earthly parents, sometimes leaves the offender to smart for his fault, even though he is forgiven. I, who would give my hand, could it avail, to call my brother's daughter my own and bring her up as such, have forfeited that right by my cruel and unfeeling conduct. My Lady Peckham has the right to dispose of Loveday, and it is her will that she should go to be brought up at the convent of Gray Nuns not far from Dartford."

So there was no help for it. I had much ado to restrain my sobs, and I saw the gray eyes of the twins fill with tears.

"But, uncle," I faltered and then stopped.

"Loveday does not like the thought of being a nun!" said my aunt Joyce, finishing the sentence for me.

"She is not to become one just now!" said my uncle. "It seems my lady has promised her husband, Sir Edward, that she shall not be professed till she is twenty-one, nor then, unless by her own choice."

"Heaven help her, what choice will she have by that time?" said my aunt.

"A good many things may happen in twelve years!" answered my uncle, dryly. "These are days of change and shaking, you know, aunt. But as Loveday is not to go to this same convent till she is sent for, we will enjoy her company while she is here. 'Each day's trouble is sufficient for the same selfe day,' as we have just read. But, my children, if your father has humbled himself before you, let not the lesson be lost upon you. Remember, never to let the seed of anger and malice take root in your hearts—no, not for an hour. Sure you may see in my case what evil and bitter fruit it may—nay, must bring forth—yea, even after the sin hath been confessed and done away by Christ His own blood and sacrifice."

Young as I was, these words of my uncle made an impression on my mind which was never wholly defaced, though covered by the teachings of later years. My lady's contrivance for evading her promise to her husband was certainly ingenious. In these days we should call it Jesuitical, but we had not then begun to hear very much about the Jesuits, though there has been coil enough since.

"It is a pleasant evening, and the air is fresh and cool after the warm day," said my uncle, after a little pause. "Get your hoods, my children, and we will walk out to the Minories, and then visit the old people at the almshouse."

Children's hearts are light. Of course I was pleased at the notion of a walk, and by the time I had been out half an hour I had persuaded myself that something might come to pass to prevent my going to the nunnery after all; and I was ready to observe and enjoy all the sights of the way. We had not gone far before I heard a great whining and grunting behind us, and looking round I perceived that we were followed by two lusty, well-fed pigs, which showed every desire for a better acquaintance. I had a dislike to hogs, and was always a little afraid of them. I pressed closer to my uncle, who was leading me by the hand, the twins going before us, and Sambo following with a great can, the use of which I did not understand.

"What is it?" said my uncle—then seeing the direction of my eyes. "Oh, the pigs; they will not hurt you. Why a country maid should not fear pigs, surely. But you wonder why they follow us; I will show you."

He took from his pockets some crusts of bread which he threw to the pigs, and of which they partook with little grunts of content and much shaking of broad ears and curly tails. I even fancied they cast glances of positive regard and affection from their queer little eyes. Their repast being ended, they turned and trotted back, I suppose, to wait for some other patron.

"Those are St. Anthony's pigs," said my uncle. "The proctors of St. Anthony's Hospital are used to take from the market people such pigs as are ill-fed and unfit for meat. These have the ear slit and a bell tied round their necks, and being thus, as it were, made free of the city, they wander about at will, and being fed by charitable persons become very tame and familiar, and learn to know and watch for their patrons, as you see. But these fellows are growing so fat, I fear I shall not have them to feed much longer. As soon as they grow plump and well-liking, the proctor takes them up and they are slaughtered for the use of the hospital."

It seemed to me rather odd even then, I remember, that a saint should be a patron of pigs, but I could not help thinking I should have liked St. Anthony far better than St. Dominic, who tore the poor sparrow in pieces for coming into church. We had now gone quite a little way from home, when we passed an abbey or convent shut in behind a high wall, and I saw that there was an open space before us.

In effect, we soon came to a great green field, where were collected many fine cows, some lying down chewing the cud, others in the milker's hands, and still others patiently waiting their turn. A sturdy, farmer-looking man was overseeing the work, and a neat woman was straining the milk and pouring it warm and rich into the vessels brought for its reception. I noticed that she gave good measure and many a kind word to the feeble old bodies and little children who brought their jugs and their half-pence. *

"Well, Dame Goodman," said my uncle, "you are busy as ever."

* This was that tract now known as Goodman's fields.

"Oh, yes, your worship, we are always busy at this hour," answered the dame. "More people come to us at night than in the morning. Where is your half-penny, Cicely Higgins?"

"I have none to-night," answered a pale scared-looking child. "Mother has been sick all week, and we have no money."

"And where is your father?"

"I don't know," answered the child sadly. "We have not seen him in many days, and mother cries so I can't ask her."

"He is where he deserves to be, and that is in prison, from which he will come to be burned with the next batch of heretics!" said a sour, thin-faced old woman. "And serve him right, too, for speaking slightingly of the Blessed Virgin. I would they were all served with the same sauce."

"For shame, dame! Have you a woman's heart in your breast, that you speak so to the worse than orphan child?" said my uncle, indignantly.

"Oh, ho! I did not know your worship was so near," answered the old woman, with a cackling laugh. "Methinks we are very tender to heretics—we are!"

"We are tender to other sinners besides heretics, or a wicked, hard-hearted old woman, who owes two quarters rent, would be turned into the street as she deserves," rejoined my aunt, severely. "You had better keep civil words, Dame Davis, at least until you can pay your debts."

The old woman turned pale at this home thrust, and muttering something about meaning no harm, retired into the crowd. My uncle asked the child a few questions, and then, turning to the dame who was measuring the milk, he bade her fill the child's pitcher, at the same time putting a piece of silver into her hand.

"That I will, your worship, and give her good measure too!" answered Dame Goodman. "Jenny Higgins is a good, hard-working creature, and not to be blamed for her husband's follies. Drat the man, why can't he believe as his betters tell him, and not go prying where he has no business?"

My uncle smiled, but sadly methought, and Sambo's great can being filled, we walked away by another road.

"Who was that old woman, aunt? You seemed to know her," said he presently.

"Who was it but old Madge Davis, who lives in your house in the Minories, and has paid no rent for six months," answered my aunt. "She is a bad handful, and keeps the other tenants in constant hot water by her meddling and tattling."

"That must be seen to. I think we will put her in the cottage with old John. He is so deaf she can not tattle to him, and there will be no one else to quarrel with."

"Most people would turn her into the street," said my aunt; "and indeed she deserves nothing better."

"Ah, dear aunt, were we all to have our deserts, who should escape?" asked my uncle, sighing. "It would ill become me, to whom have been forgiven ten thousand talents, to take my fellow-servant by the throat who owes me but an hundred pence."

I did not understand the allusion at the time, but afterward I read the story aloud to my uncle in his great book.

We had now come some distance and were arrived at another field, inclosed, but with convenient paths and turnstiles for foot passengers. On the side of this field toward the street were about half a dozen small, but neat and well-built two-story cottages, each with its little garden-plot stocked with pot herbs and some homely flowers. In most of them the windows were open, and on the sills, which were quite low, lay a clean white cloth and a rosary. The inmates were mostly bed-rid, but in one or two the old man or woman might be seen sitting bolstered up in a great chair. I at once guessed that these were almshouses of some sort. My cousins told me afterward that they were founded by some prior of the Priory of Trinity, a kinsman of our own, who had left a provision for the care of the poor bedesmen and women.

I now found out the use of the great can of milk which Sambo had brought from the abbey field. In every window stood a little brown jug, which the blackamoor proceeded to fill from the vessel he carried. The good fellow seemed to enjoy his work of charity, to judge by the grins and nods he bestowed on the old folks. Most thanked him heartily, but one old woman turned away her head, and when my aunt rather mischievously asked her if she did not want any milk, she muttered that it turned her against it to see that heathen pour it out.

"Never mind her," said my uncle to Sambo, who looked greatly affronted, as well he might. "She is a poor childish creature you know," and, taking the can from the black man's hand, he filled the jug himself, and passed on smiling, while Sambo muttered that Massa was a heap too good.

The last cottage was the neatest in the row, and a hale-looking old man was training a honeysuckle round the door. I wondered why he was there, till I looked in at the window and espied a wasted old woman propped up in the bed, looking more like death than life. My uncle stopped and entered into conversation with the old man, while we young ones made acquaintance with a white cat and two kittens which were basking in the sun.

"With all my heart—with all my heart!" we heard the old man say, presently. "There is plenty of room up stairs and the little lass can wait on Mary at odd times. Poor soul, poor soul! But will not your worship come in and have a word with my poor dame? It does her so much good. And meantime the young ladies can look at the garden and the birds."

We went round to the back of the house accordingly, where we found a neat little garden-plot in which was a tame sea-gull running about in company with a hedge-pig, a lame goose, and a queer little dog, which always seemed to go on three legs. We amused ourselves with the animals, which came to us at once, as if quite used to being noticed, till my uncle called us.

On the way home, he told my aunt that he had arranged with the old man to let Cicely Higgins's mother live in the upper room of his cottage for the present. It seems each of the old people were entitled to an attendant, but John being a hale man for his great age, did not avail himself of the privilege, but cared for his wife himself.

My uncle had some control over these houses by virtue of his relationship to the founder, I believe, and, therefore, could put in whom he pleased. There were many such small charitable foundations about London in those days, but they were mostly swept away in the great storm which destroyed all the religious houses in the land. It was a storm which cleared the air, no doubt, but it left some sad wrecks behind it, as is the way of tempests.

When we reached home we had supper, at which two or three of my uncle's friends joined us—elderly, sober men like himself. We young ones went to bed directly after, and thus ended my first day of London.

[CHAPTER III.]

ANOTHER CHANGE.

FOR a few days I was kept in quite a fever of suspense, thinking every time I heard a strange voice or an unusual noise in the house, that some one had come for me; but as the days passed into weeks, and the weeks into months, and I heard nothing from Mother Benedict, I began to make myself at home in my uncle's house. My old life in Somersetshire came to seem like a dream—almost as much so as that still further away time when I lived at Watcombe farm with my father and mother. I practiced my lute, and worked at my white seam and tapestry, and kept up my Latin, learning a lesson every day which I said to my uncle at night, when he never failed to reward me, when I had been diligent, with a story out of his great book. For recreation we played with our dolls and the cat, worked in our own little gardens, and took walks with my uncle and aunt to see poor people. Sometimes we had playmates of our own to visit us, but not often, and I think we preferred each other's society at all times to that of outsiders.

Once, my uncle took us out of town to spend the day with a farmer who rented certain lands from him. We went away early in the morning, my aunt riding a sober palfrey, and we children occupying a horse litter under the charge of two or three stout serving men; for, despite the severities exercised toward robbers and broken men, the ways about London were dangerous for small parties. We met with no adventures, however, and when we reached the open heath, my aunt allowed us to get down and walk, on condition that we did not go far-away.

I shall never forget how delightful was the feel of the short springy turf under my feet after the stony paths of the city. I would have liked to rove far and wide; but this my aunt forbade, and I had to content myself with gathering such flowers as grew near at hand. We arrived at the farm about nine of the clock, and found the family had risen from dinner, and were dispersed about their several occupations.

In those days a farmer's wife would rise, and have all her maids stirring by three o'clock at latest in summer-time, and her day ended by seven or eight. The whole family dined together between eight and nine, and master and mistress worked as hard as any one. Now some of our farmers' dames must ape their betters by putting off their dinners till ten o'clock, and cannot, forsooth, soil their fingers with the dung-fork. I don't know what the world is coming to for my part.

Dame Green gave us the warmest welcome, and at once set her daughters and maids to covering the table with bread and butter, cream, ginger and saffron bread, and a great cold pie like a fortification, with all sorts of country dainties. We young ones did ample justice to all the good things, but I saw that my aunt ate but little, and seemed sad and distraught.

"You have some one with you?" said my aunt, as a somewhat high-pitched voice, with a strong London accent, made itself heard without.

"Yes, my brother-in-law's widow, and I wish she were any where else!" said Dame Green, with a face of disgust. "Poor Thomas Green died bankrupt, and Mistress Jane hath no refuge but her brother's house."

"And a very good refuge too!" said my aunt. "'Tis well for her that she hath such a home open to her."

"She does not think so, madam. To hear her talk, one would think she was in banishment among the savages. I wish she were any where else than here, turning the girls' heads with her talk about tourneys and court fashions—much she ever saw of them! But here she comes to answer for herself."

As she spoke, a woman entered the room dressed in widow's mourning. She must once have been pretty, in a coarse, bouncing fashion, and she wore her weeds with a kind of jaunty air. Dame Green presented her to my aunt.

"Dear me, Mistress Holland, who would have expected to see you in the country to-day, of all days in the year!" cried the lady in a shrill, affected voice. "I should have thought you would have staid and taken the young ladies to see the spectacle. I have been fuming all the morning at being shut up in this wild place."

We children looked at each other, wondering what great sight we had missed.

My aunt replied gravely:

"Such sights are far too sad and dreadful for young eyes. Indeed, I know not how any one can take pleasure in witnessing the horrible death of a fellow-creature."

Mistress Jane looked a little abashed.

"But these are heretics and blasphemers, madam! Surely you will allow that they deserve their deaths."

"If we all had our deserts, we should be cast into a hotter fire than Smithfield!" said my aunt. "Even the fire that never can be quenched."

Mistress Jane looked decidedly offended.

"One would think you were one o' the Gospelers yourself, madam! For my part, I ever paid my dues to Holy Church and took the sacrament regular on the great feast days, and I have always given alms in charity—yes, to every begging friar that came along, besides making two pilgrimages to the shrine of Saint Thomas of Canterbury, and if that won't insure my salvation, I wonder what will? I'm not like some folks that grudge a poor widow so much as a jaunt to London," with a spiteful glance at her sister. "Every one knows 'tis a good work to assist at the burning of a heretic."

We children glanced at each other again, which my aunt seeing, after exchanging a look with our hostess, said rather quickly—

"If you have finished your dinners, children, you may run out and play."

"Yes, to be sure!" said the dame. "Dolly, take the young ladies out and show them the new chickens and the little ducklings swimming in the pond."

I, for one, would rather have staid to hear the talk in which I felt a kind of dreadful interest, but I was used to obey without a word, of course. Dolly was a nice, good-natured, bouncing girl, who was much delighted with the new ribbons and kirtle my aunt had brought for her. She did her best to entertain us; leading us all about the farm and showing us the young fowls and the lambs at play in the pasture. In the course of our rambles, we passed a little ruinous house, half-overgrown with nettles and brambles, but yet bearing the marks of having once been a church-building of some sort.

"What is that?" asked Katherine.

Dolly crossed herself. "That is the hermit's cell," said she, "but no one lives there now. The place has an evil name, and is haunted."

"Why, what is the matter with it?" asked Katherine.

Dolly hurried us to some distance from the scene, and then told us the story, which at this distance of time, I do not clearly remember, only that it was that of a hermit who was once very holy and even worked miracles.

"They say he had an image of the Virgin of such wonderful power, that it would bow its head and spread out its hands to bless whoever brought it an offering. But by and by, the hermit got into a strange way, refused to say masses in the little chapel you see there, and was heard at night, talking with some invisible person. At last, one morning when he had not been seen for a long time, search was made for him, but naught could they find but his gown and breviary, and the holy image which lay dashed all in fragments on the floor of the chapel."

This is the tale as nearly as I remember it. Dolly added, that since then, lights were often seen, and voices heard in the ruins, and that no one would go near them after dark; indeed it was regarded as so dangerous to do so that her father had strictly forbidden it.

When we returned to the house we found my uncle had arrived. He greeted us kindly as usual, but his face looked worn and had a set expression, as of one who has been forced against his will to behold some horrible sight.

But I had not much time to speculate on his face. I had not been well lately, and had been subject to fits of coldness and swooning, which my aunt declared were caused by a tertian ague. I suppose I might have over-fatigued myself, for one of these same fits came on now, and I came near falling from my seat.

I was put to bed with all speed, and dosed with I know not what hot and spicy cordials from the dame's stores; but all did not serve. I had a hard chill, and then a fever, after which I fell asleep. When I waked all was quiet, only for the noises out of doors. I felt very comfortable, though weak and disinclined to stir. So I lay still, and watched the bees buzzing in the eglantine and jasmine round the casement, till I became aware of some one talking in the next room, the door of which was half open. The voices were those of my uncle and aunt.

"So he met his death bravely?" said my aunt.

"Like a hero!" answered my uncle. "Even when he parted from his wife, who by the kindness of the sheriff was allowed to take leave of him just outside the prison gate, he showed no signs of giving way, but kissed her and sent his blessing to his child, as if he had been setting out on an ordinary journey."

"And she?"

"She was no less brave than himself, poor heart, bidding him have no care for her—she should do very well. He bade her so to live as that they should meet in heaven; whereat one that stood by struck him on the mouth, bidding him be silent for a foul-mouthed heretic. Whereat, Higgins turned to him and said calmly—'God give thee repentance, friend, for an' if He do not, thou art in a worse case than I.' When he had passed, and not before, did the poor wife fall down in a fit, and was charitably cared for by some women of her acquaintance."

"And Higgins was brave to the last?"

"Yes, to the very last moment. He would not so much as listen to the promise of pardon if he would repent, and commended his soul to God as the faggots were lighted. There was plenty of tar and resin among them, and I think he suffered not long."

"Thank Heaven!" said my aunt, and I knew by her voice that she was weeping.

"But oh, nephew, when will all this end?"

"I know not, aunt; but I trust and believe that it will end in the establishment of truth and a free Gospel in all this land. It may not be in our time, but it will surely come."

Here I made some movement, and my aunt coming to me, I heard no more. But I often thought of the conversation afterward, and puzzled over it. I had been brought up by my Lady Peckham to think a heretic the worst of criminals. Yet here were mine uncle and aunt, the very best people I had ever known, whose sympathy was clearly on the side of one at least of these heretics. Childlike, I turned the matter over and over in my mind without ever mentioning it to any one, or asking for a solution of my puzzles.

It was not thought best for me to return to London that night, and, indeed, I was not able. I staid at the farm some weeks, part of the time having my cousins for company. It was pretty dull at first, but as I grew better and able to go about, I liked it very well.

My only trouble was Mistress Jenny Green, whom I came absolutely to hate. She was always catechising me about my uncle's family, what company they kept, what furniture, etc., they had, where we went to church, and all sorts of trifling particulars. At other times she would spend hours in bewailing her hard lot, and describing the fine things she had enjoyed in her London home.

Truly, if she spent half what she said, 'tis no wonder her husband became bankrupt, poor man. Then she took a great fit of devotion—would go to matins and vespers and all other services at a convent church not far-away; kept fasts and vigils, and had even made up her mind to receive from the priest of that house the widow's mantle and ring; * but a suitor from London turning up in the shape of a smart young draper, she changed her mind, married him on the instant, and went away to London, to the great relief of her own family, and the scandal of the priest aforesaid. This I have learned since. I was too young to know much about it at the time, only I well remember how glad we were to see her go.

* It was formerly a custom for widows who did not desire to marry again to make a vow to that effect, at which time they received a mantle and ring. A breach of this vow was counted very disgraceful.

It was now drawing toward midsummer, and my health being fairly settled again, I was sent for home. I parted with my kind hostess and her family with real regret, which I fear was not altogether unselfish. At the farm I was quite a great lady, petted and waited on, and treated with great consideration.

At home, I was only little Loveday—a child of the family, taking my place with the others, having my daily tasks, and checked and reproved if I did them amiss. I began to be sullen and discontented, careless about my lessons and my work, and pert when spoken to.

One day my uncle heard me give my Aunt Joyce a very saucy answer (which I had never dared to do had I known he was by). He ordered me at once to beg her pardon, and when transported with passion I refused, he punished me severely, and ordered that I should be kept in penitence till I submitted. I dare say I should have done the same thing in his place, and yet I do not think it was the best way in my own case. I had enough of my family spirit to know how to cherish a grudge. I thought my aunt was wrong in blaming me (as indeed she was, for I am confident I never touched the glass she charged me with breaking); my Corbet blood was roused, and I would not give way. I had my meals by myself for several days, and was not spoken to by any of the family.

There was one person in the house who thoroughly rejoiced in my disgrace, and that was old Madge. She had always been jealous of me, being one of those people to whom it seems necessary if they love one person or thing, to hate some other person or thing in exact proportion. Madge fancied, I believe, that my adoption by my uncle would lessen by just so much the portions of her darlings, Katherine and Avice. They could do nothing wrong in her eyes. We were required to put our rooms and beds to rights. Katherine was apt to be rather careless, more so than myself, but while Madge would always pick up and put away for her, she took care that any little sluttishness of mine should be sure to meet my aunt's eye. Nay, I used to accuse her in mine own mind (and I am not sure now that I was wrong) of purposely putting my affairs out of order that I might get a reproof. However that might be, my faults lost nothing in her hands.

Madge's granddaughter was one of our maids, and a spiteful thing she was, and quite ready to follow her grandmother's lead, so far as I was concerned. She had a bachelor who was a journeyman of my Lord Mayor, and they were to be married in the course of the summer. 'Twas a match rather above her degree, but Betty was a pretty creature, and knew how to ingratiate herself well enough. My aunt had promised her her body and house linen, and also her wedding gown.

It was the day before St. John's eve, whereon the marching watch was to be set forth with greater bravery than usual. I had heard a great deal from my cousins about this splendid show on St. John's eve. The citizens of London were accustomed to set tables before their doors plentifully laden with meats and drinks, whereof all passers-by were invited to partake. The houses were decorated with lamps and cressets, and the doors shadowed with canopies of sweet herbs and all sorts of flowers. Every body was abroad to see the marching watch in their bright harness, with their attendants bearing cressets upon poles, while others carried oil wherewith to feed them. Then there were pageants, morris dancers, and musicians without end. It was, indeed, a goodly and gallant show.

Great heaps of flowers and herbs had been sent in from the farm, and my aunt and cousins, with the maids, were busy weaving garlands. The cook and his assistants were well-nigh driven frantic by the heat and their cares, while Sambo flitted here and there like a magpie, helping every one, and showing his white teeth with endless grins and chuckles. Sambo was my firm friend and took my part on all occasions, which did not help me with Dame Madge. I should have been in the thickest of the plot at any other time, and my assistance was not to be despised, small as I was, but no one asked me to help, and I wandered about, feeling very forlorn and bitter, indeed, and wishing that Mother Benedict would come and carry me away to the convent.

In this mood I went out to the garden, where my own little flower plot lay looking so prim and pretty, and where I had spent so many pleasant hours with my cousins, who were now not allowed to speak with me, though they often gave me looks of compassion. Indeed, Katherine had brought herself into temporary disgrace on my account, by telling Betty before her grandam, that she was a spiteful, tale-bearing pyet, and deserved to be whipped far more than I did.

I walked about the garden, feeling miserable enough, when the thought struck me that I would go and look at my uncle's Indian tree, which was now coming into flower. I knew that two buds had been just ready to burst the night before. Lo! Not two but three or four flowers were fully out. I know not how to describe them, for I never saw any like them before or since. They were round in shape, somewhat like a rose but more regular, with thick, wax-like leaves, and some yellow in the center. I stood, as it were, entranced before them, and at last I stooped down and kissed one of them, but without doing it any harm.

"So, Mistress Loveday!" said Madge's sharp voice behind me. "You are not content with what you have done, but you must needs break and spoil your good uncle's flowers."

I turned and saw Madge and Betty regarding me. I vouchsafed them no reply, but walked away to my own garden, my heart swelling almost to bursting with anger, grief, and wounded pride. Somehow its neatness and brightness seemed to mock me, and, in a fit of rage, I set my foot on a beautiful white lily and crushed it into the earth. The deed was no sooner done than repented. Bursting into tears, I raised the poor plant from the ground. Its once white flower, all broken and smirched with soil, seemed to reproach me with my cruelty. It was ruined beyond hope. I wept over it till I could weep no more, and then, mournfully burying it out of sight, I returned to the house.

That evening, as I was sitting in my own room, trying to divert myself a little with my work, I received a summons to the parlor. There sat my uncle, with the severest face I had ever seen him wear. In his hands he held one of the flowers of the India tree, broken and soiled.

"Loveday, do you know any thing of this?" said he, sternly.

I felt myself change color, but answered firmly: "No, uncle. I saw four flowers on the tree this morning, but I have not seen them since."

"That is not true," said he, more sternly still. "You were seen to pick them, to crush them, and then bury them in the ground in your garden, where this one was found just now."

"I did not do any such thing!" I answered, hotly enough. "I did kiss one of them, because it looked so friendly at me, but I did not hurt it, I know."

My uncle made a sign to Betty, who was standing by. To my utter amazement, she declared that she and her grandmother had just stopped me from destroying the flowers in the morning, and that watching me afterward, from the chamber window, she had seen me carry something to my garden and stamp it into the earth. She had not thought much about it till she heard the flowers were missing, and then looking where she had seen me at work, she found one of the flowers.

What could I say? I could only repeat my denial. I had never hurt the flowers nor touched them, except that I had kissed one of them, as I said.

"And this story you stand to, though Betty saw you with her own eyes trying to spoil the flowers this morning?"

"Yes, I do stand to it!" I answered, driven to desperation by the plot against me, and what seemed the hopelessness of my case. "Betty is a liar and so is Madge, and some time you will find them out."

I think my uncle dared not trust himself to punish me. He knew the infirmity of his own temper. I can feel for him, since I have the same temper myself.

"I cannot have an obstinate liar and rebel in my family!" said he. "Unless you confess and humble yourself, I must send you away."

I saw my aunt whisper something in his ear, but he shook his head, and repeated: "Unless you confess and humble yourself, I must send you away to the convent!"

"You may send me as soon as you please!" I retorted, desperate in my misery and hopelessness, for I could see no way out of my trouble. "I may as well be in one place as another, so long as nobody believes me, or cares about me. I wish I had never come here!"

My aunt put out her hand between me and my uncle, as he started from his seat; but there was no need, for whatever his impulse was, he checked himself in a moment.

"Take this wicked child away, and let her remain by herself till she shall come to a better mind!" said he. "I cannot now trust myself to deal with her."

"You had better read over what you read in your great book the other day about charity!" I retorted, naughty child that I was. "Any how the Holy Virgin and the Saints know that I never touched the flower, and they know who did, too." I saw Betty wince at this. "I will never care for or believe in that book again, for it makes you unkind and wicked."

I did not see the effect of my bold words, for my aunt hurried me away. She took me, not to my own bed-closet, but to a room in the front of the house, next her own, which we children always called the Apostles' room, because it had figures of the apostles wrought on the hangings. Here she left me, turning the key upon me, but presently came back with Sambo carrying a truckle bed, and whatever I needed for the night. My wild anger had subsided into sullen grief by that time, and I never spoke.

I was left alone till supper-time, when Betty came up, bringing me a basin of milk and a slice of brown bread.

"Here is your supper, and a great deal better than you deserve!" said she, in her provoking taunting tone—old fool that I am, the very remembrance makes my blood boil. "Here is a fine end to your airs, forsooth; a country wench to be set up for a lady!"

The words were not out of her mouth before she received a stinging box on each ear from the hands of my aunt, who had followed her in time to hear her words.

"Take that—and that—for thy impudence!" said my aunt, repeating the application. "And let me hear you beg my niece's pardon directly or you leave the house this hour. Country wench, indeed!" And again my aunt's hand emphasized her remarks on Betty's cheek. *

"I beg your pardon, mistress!" sobbed Betty.

"That is well. But why are you here at all? I bade Sambo bring the tray, and where are the manchets I laid upon it."

"Guess dat Betty eat 'em herself!" said Sambo, who stood thoroughly enjoying Betty's disgrace, for they were old enemies. "I just went out to bring Missy Lovely—" that was his version of my name—"a flower from her own bed, and, see here, missy, what I find."

As he spoke, he held up a pair of scissors which we both know to be Betty's.

* Much greater ladies than Mrs. Holland beat their maids till long after this time. See Pepy's diary.

"Where did you find these?" asked my aunt.

"Sticking in the dirt in Missy Lovely garden," answered the negro. "I tell you, Missy Holland, dat gal a deep one."

"Hush, Sambo, you forget yourself!" said my aunt, smiling. "Go down and ask the cook for one of the new baked saffron cakes, and bring it up. As for you, Betty, I shall watch you, and woe be to you if you have spoken falsely, or if I hear you use another impertinent word. Go, now, take your besom and sweep every bit of dust from the summer-house and the paved walks. Finish the work before you leave it, and let me see it done nicely, or I will lay one of the besom twigs about your shoulders."

I don't think my aunt was one bit sorry to have a legitimate cause for falling upon Betty. When we were alone together, she sat down in a great chair, and drawing me to her, spite of my resistance, she prayed me most kindly and gently to tell her the whole truth.

"What is the use, aunt?" I asked, not so much sullenly as hopelessly. "I have told the truth already, and nobody will believe me. You credit Betty, though you know she tells lies, and I have never told a lie since I came into the house. And even if you do, my uncle will not. I thought he was the best man in the world, and now I never can think him good any more!"

"You know, Loveday, no one would have thought of such a thing if you had not been naughty before!" said my aunt, gently. "Have I not always been good to you?"

"Yes, Aunt Joyce."

"And yet, because I gave you a just reproof for carelessness, you answered me pertly, and then refused to make amends, as is every Christian person's duty, whether they be young or old. Was that right?"

"I suppose not!" I answered, softening a little. "But indeed, aunt, I am sure I did not break the glass. I never touched it, and was quite a distance away when I heard it crack."

"Very well, I will take your account of it!" said my aunt, after a little consideration. "But why could you not have said so, as well as to answer me so pertly?"

"I am sorry I was pert!" I answered, softening as soon as I saw that my aunt was disposed to do me justice. "I beg your pardon. But, indeed, indeed, I did not break the Indian tree."

"Tell me all about it!" said my aunt. "How was it?"

I began and went over the whole story—how badly I had felt; how I went to see the Indian tree, and had kissed one of the flowers, because I fancied that it looked kindly at me; how Madge and Betty had accused and taunted me; and how in my rage I broke the white lily.

"But that was very foolish!" said my aunt. "What had the poor lily done?"

"Nothing, aunt! I was sorry the next minute, and I buried it in the ground that I might not see the poor thing any more."

"That was what Betty saw you doing in your garden, then?"

"Yes, aunt; I suppose so."

My aunt mused a little, holding my hand in hers meantime. Then she raised her head and said decidedly:

"Loveday, I am disposed to believe that you are telling the truth. I do not think you hurt the flower, unless you broke it by accident, as you say you kissed it. Are you sure you did not?"

"Yes, aunt; quite sure. Oh, Aunt Joyce, do believe me. I can't live if every one thinks me a liar."

And then I began to cry again. My aunt hushed me and tried to make me eat, but that I could not do. She then undressed me and put me to bed with her blessing. My fierce indignation was all gone by that time, and I began to hope that things would come right after all.

I don't know whether or not my aunt imparted to my uncle her own convictions of my innocence, but if so, she did not succeed in convincing him. I staid in my solitude all day, but I was allowed my embroidery frame, and Sambo—with my aunt's connivance, I imagine—brought his talking popinjay to amuse me. It was a very pretty and entertaining bird, and I beguiled my solitude by teaching it some new words and phrases.

Toward night, however, the scene outside became so gay and animated that I almost forgot my grievances in watching it. As I have said, my uncle's house was built with the upper stories overhanging, and my room had besides a projecting window, so I could see up and down the street for a long way. All the houses had been adorned with garlands of sweet herbs and flowers, and branches of lights which were now being kindled and made a fine show. Before every house of any consequence was set a table with store of meat and drink, which was free to all comers. My uncle's great chair was placed on the pavement, and Sambo stood behind it dressed in his gayest suit. The maids, all in their best, were gathered at an upper window to see the show, and Betty had put herself particularly forward.

But now came the sound of music and the tramp of horses, and every body was on the alert. Presently I saw the head of the procession coming round the corner. First came sundry pageants, morris dancers with bells, and so forth; then men in bright armor, each one with an attendant bearing a light upon a pole. Then came the Mayor and his attendants, on foot and on horseback, all with scarlet jerkins trimmed with gold lace, and posies at their breasts. I knew one of the footmen was Betty's bachelor, and had seen him more than once. As he came abreast of the house, he looked up, and there, fastened in his jerkin, were the missing flowers.

Somebody else had seen them too. As the man saw his mistress looking at him, he put his hand to his cap to salute her, and in so doing, he brushed the flowers from his breast. Before he had time to miss them, Sambo sprang upon them like a black cat upon a mouse, put them in his bosom, and returned to his place, before any one but myself, and I think Betty, saw what he had done. She uttered some sort of exclamation, and retired from the window, and though she presently returned, I don't think she greatly enjoyed the rest of the show, gorgeous as it was.

The procession passed with all its lights and music, its images of giants, and all the rest of the show, and disappeared in the distance. The tables were carried in, the lights extinguished, and I went to bed, feeling greatly comforted by the thought that my innocence was like to be established.

The next morning my dinner was brought me as usual, and it was not till noon that my aunt came and led me down to the parlor. There sat my uncle in his great chair, the withered red flowers on the table before him. Teddy Stillman, Betty's sweetheart—a decent looking whitesmith—stood near, twirling his flat cap in his hands, his honest face cast down with a look of grief and shame. Sambo stood behind his master's chair, like a statue done in ebony, and Betty was crying in a corner. My uncle held out his hand to me and bade me approach.

"Do you see these flowers, niece?"

"Yes, uncle," I answered.

"Do you know where they were found?"

"Yes, uncle."

And being further questioned, I told him what I had seen from my window the night before. The laundry-woman testified to seeing red flowers fall, and Sambo pick them up, but she had not understood the matter. She thought they were roses.

"It skills not talking further, Master Corbet," said the whitesmith, raising his eyes and speaking in a modest, manly sort of way. "It is true that I had these same red flowers in my breast, and dropped them, but I saw not the blackamoor pick them up."

"But how came you by them—that is the question," said my uncle. "There is not their like in London, as I well know. I beg of you, Stillman, to tell me the whole truth, and you will see my reason for it when I tell you that this young lady, my niece, hath been accused of wantonly destroying them, on the witness of Betty Davis, who declares that she saw Mistress Loveday Corbet about to break them off and stopped her, and afterward watched her bury something in her own garden-bed, where she, Betty, professed to find one of the flowers."

"I only said," Betty began; but her grandam stopped her with a clutch at her arm and a muttered "Be quiet, wench; you will but make matters worse."

Teddy Stillman cast upon his sweetheart a look of grief, which must have touched her heart if she had any, and then turned to my uncle.

"I must needs speak, since it is to clear the innocent," said he. "Betty gave me these flowers yesterday with her own hand, at the back gate, when I came to put up the branches for the lights. She said the cat had broken down the plant, and her mistress said she might have them. So I took them, thinking no evil, as she hath often given me flowers and posies of rosemary and lavender, which she said her mistress had given her."

"So that is what became of my lavender buds," said my aunt, who was great in distilling and compounding of herbs, and worshiped her lavender beds as if they had been the shrines of saints.

My uncle dismissed Teddy, with thanks and commendation for his frankness, but I noticed he did not offer him any money. The poor lad made his obeisance, and passed out without so much as looking at his sweetheart. Then my uncle, in presence of the whole family, declared his belief in my entire innocence of what had been charged to me, and, turning to me, he asked my pardon, saying he had been too ready to condemn me on the evidence of one who had proved herself a thief and a liar. This concession on my uncle's part dissolved in a moment all the remains of my stubbornness.

"No, no, uncle!" I cried, dropping on my knees. "It was I that was wicked and obstinate, and I am sorry; and I begged aunt's pardon before. Please forgive me, uncle, and I will not be pert any more."

"We will both forgive and forget," said my uncle, raising and kissing me.

"You have need to thank Sambo, niece, for it was his sharp sight and quick hand which brought to light the proofs of your innocence. Give him your hand."

I did so willingly, and Sambo kissed it with many grins and giggles. Then the servants were dismissed, and presently I saw Sambo dancing a dance of triumph on the stones of the garden walk, to the music of his own singing and whistling. The twins were overjoyed, and would have given me all their most cherished possessions to celebrate the event. My uncle said he would take us to the Tower to see the lions, and bade us get ready. I escaped for a little, and shutting myself in my own little room, I said a prayer for forgiveness and repeated a paternoster. As I did so, the sense of the words came to me as never before, and I resolved that I would try to forgive even Betty.

We went to the Tower and saw the lions—two very fine fellows—a leopard and some other wild creatures, and enjoyed the fearful pleasure of feeding the great brown bear with cakes. On the way home, my uncle took us to see some of the goldsmiths' and other fine shops, and bought us each a fairing. At one place, a silk mercer's, he asked the elderly man in attendance about his son.

"He hath not yet returned," said the old man, shaking his head; "a dangerous service, Master Corbet—a dangerous service; but we must not withhold even Isaac when the Lord calls for him."

"Truly not, my brother," answered mine uncle; "but I hope the need of these perilous journeys may soon be past. I heard it from one that knows what goes on at Court, that his Grace is like to be moved of his royal bounty to give to this land a free gospel before long."

The old man's face lighted up: "The Lord fulfill it—the Lord fulfill it, Master Corbet. But think you it is true? The Chancellor is very bitter against Master Tyndale?"

"The Chancellor is like to need his breath to cool his own porridge, if all tales be true," said my uncle; "but this is not the place, nor does it become us to be talking of such matters. I hope your son may soon return in safety."

When we reached home, which we did in time for supper, Betty was missing. Anne, the laundry-woman, slept in our room that night. The next day we heard that Betty had been sent to her home in the country, and old Madge had gone with her, not choosing to stay after her favorite grandchild was disgraced. I don't think my aunt was very sorry to have the old woman go of her own accord, though she would never have sent her away, for the poor thing was grown so cankered and jealous that she kept the house in hot water. After Betty's departure, some of the other maids were very forward in their tales of her dishonest practices and running out of nights, but my aunt treated these tales with very little ceremony, saying that the time to have told them was not behind Betty's back, but when she was there to speak for herself. I hardly ever saw any one with such a strong sense of justice as Aunt Joyce. It showed itself in all she did, and was one secret of her success in governing a household.

Things had now returned to their usual course. I went about my lessons and my play with the other children, and, warned by what had happened, was careful to give no just cause of offense. My uncle was kinder to me than ever, but there was a cloud on his brow and a look of sadness on his face when his eyes rested on me that I could not understand, and which made me vaguely uneasy.

Once I heard my aunt say in a tone of deep regret, "Ah, nephew, if only you had not been so hasty."

And my uncle muttered, "Mea culpa, mea culpa," and hid his face in his hands.

It was about two weeks after the affair of the flowers that I was coming in from the garden, when I saw some one that I knew to be a priest by his dress, passing into mine uncle's private room. I was not greatly surprised, for we had many clerical visitors, but they were usually secular priests, while this man was a regular.

I went up to my room—we had been promoted to the tapestry room since Madge went away, and felt quite grown up in consequence—washed my hands, and put on a clean kerchief and pinafore, those I wore being the worse for my labors in the garden. As I was finishing my dressing operations, my aunt entered the room, and I saw in a moment that she had been weeping. All of a sudden—I don't know how—a cold weight seemed to fall on my heart. I have had many such premonitions of evil in my day, and they have never come without cause.

"My dear child," said she, and then she fell a-weeping as if her heart would break, for a minute or two, I standing by, wondering what could have happened, and feeling sure that whatever it was, it concerned myself. All of a sudden, a notion came across me, and I cried out in anguish:

"Oh, aunt, have they come to take me away to the convent?"

"It is even so, my child," said my aunt, commanding herself with a great effort. "The prioress of the convent at Dartford hath sent for you, and my nephew hath no choice but to let you go."

If a tree that is torn up by the roots can feel, it must feel very much as I did that morning. I had taken very deep root in my new home, and, except during the sad time when I was in trouble about the flowers, I had been very happy. I had come to love my aunt and uncle dearly, and the twins had become, as it were, a part of my very heart. I loved the pleasant, easy ways of my uncle's household, where each was made comfortable according to his degree; where abundance and cheerful hospitality sat at the board, and peace and love were our chamber-mates, and watched over our pillows. My uncle was hasty-tempered, it was true, but even a child as I was could see what a watch he kept over himself in this respect.

But alas, and woe is me. Such a temper is like a package of gunpowder. The fire thereof is out in an instant, but in that instant it hath done damage that can never be repaired.

I was absolutely stricken dumb by the greatness of the calamity which had overtaken me, and could not speak a word. I think my aunt was frightened at my silence; for she kissed and tried to rouse me. At last I faltered—

"Must I go to-day?"

"I fear so, my dear lamb. The prioress of the convent has sent for you by the hands of their priest, and as two ladies are to travel down into Kent with him, you will be well attended."

With that, my aunt bestirred herself, and called Anne, the laundry-woman, to help in getting my clothes together. The twins had come in by that time; they had been away to visit some old kinswoman of their mother's, and they had to be told the news: Both Katherine and Avice cried bitterly, but I could not cry. I was like one stunned.

At last, at my uncle's summons, I was called down to the parlor to speak with the priest. He was a good-natured looking, easy-going specimen of a regular, and greeted me kindly enough, bestowing his blessing as I kneeled to receive it, in that rapid, mechanical fashion I so well remembered in Father Barnaby and Father John.

"And so you are coming to the convent to be a holy sister, as my good Lady Peckham desires!" said he. Then to my uncle: "In truth, 'tis a fair offering, Master Corbet. I almost wonder that having such a jewel in your hands, you should give her up—that is, if she be as towardly as she is fair of face?"

"Loveday is a good child in the main, though she has her faults and follies like other children!" replied my uncle.

"And grown folks, too, eh, Master Corbet?" said the priest, with a jolly laugh. "I don't know that the follies of youth are worse than the follies of age, do you?"

"They are not a tenth part as bad!" said mine uncle, with a good deal of bitterness. "'There is no fool like an old fool,' is a true and pithy saying."

"Even over true!" returned the priest; then turning to me: "Well, daughter, you must have wondered that you were left so long, that is, if you thought of it at all. The truth is, Sister Benedict, who had the matter in charge, died soon after she came to us, and the affair was quite forgotten, till your good uncle's letter reminding the prioress of her duty; she looked over some papers Sister Benedict had left, and found my Lady Peckham's letter."

So it was my uncle's doing. I remembered all at once his own words: "I will not have an obstinate liar in my family—" and the cloud that had rested on his brow ever since. He had done the deed in one of his hasty fits of temper, and only for him, the prioress would never have thought of sending for me.

Folks are apt to talk slightingly of the sorrows of childhood, but they must be those who do not remember their own. When a cup is full, it is full, and that whether it hold a gill or a gallon. I had been unhappy enough before at the prospect of going away, but that unhappiness was nothing to the tide of wretchedness, of disappointed love and impotent anger that swept over me. I think my first clear thought was that I would never let my uncle see that I was sorry to go away. So when the priest asked me again whether I would like to go to the convent I courtesied and said, in a voice which did not somehow seem to be my own:

"Yes, reverend father, I shall like it very much!"

My uncle looked at me with a face of grieved surprise.

"Are you indeed so glad to leave us, niece!" said he.

"I am glad to go, if you want me to go, uncle!" I answered, in the same hard voice. "I don't want to stay when you want to get rid of me, only—" and here I broke down—"only I wish they had buried me in the same grave with my father and mother, and then I should not be given away from one to another, like a poor fool or a dog that is in every one's way!"

I do think I was the boldest, naughtiest child that ever lived, or I should not have dared to speak so to my elders.

My uncle started from his chair as if something had stung him, and went hastily out of the room.

The priest looked out of the window. My aunt laid her hand on my shoulder with that soft yet firm touch which always had a great effect in calming my tantrums, as old Madge used to call them, and whispered me to recollect myself and not anger my uncle.

Presently Father Austin called me to him, and began in a gentle, fatherly way, to tell me how pleasant was the priory at Dartford, what a nice garden the ladies had, and what fine sweetmeats they made—talking as one like himself would naturally talk to a child. He was ever a kind soul, and glad I am that I have had it in my power to succor his reverend age. But that is going a very long way before my tale.

"I trust the lady prioress will be kind to my niece," said my Aunt Joyce.

"I think you need have no fear on that score," answered Father Austin; "though the little one is not like to have much to do with her. She will be under the care of the mistress of the novices, an excellent woman, though I say it that should not, she being mine own sister, and you need have no fears for her well-being."

Sambo now announced dinner, and my aunt led the way to the dining-room, where she had prepared quite a feast to do honor to our guest, and perhaps to put him in a good humor, though that was quite needless. I think the good man was the only one who enjoyed the collation, though my uncle strove to eat out of courtesy, and my aunt heaped my plate with delicacies which I could not touch.

"And now we must be stirring, for the days grow shorter than they were, and I would fain be at home before dark, though we travel in good company," said the priest. "There are two young ladies of the family of Sir James Brandon who travel down with us, and the knight will send a sufficient escort with them. So, if it please you, Mistress Holland, let the child be made ready as soon as may be."

"Her packing is all done, and it remains but to say farewell," said my aunt. "My nephew hath also provided two serving men, one to ride before Loveday, and the other to drive down and bring back the Sumpter mule."

"Sumpter mule! What is that about a sumpter mule?" asked Father Austin. "Does my young mistress need a sumpter mule to carry her court dresses? She will have small need of finery where she is going, Mistress Holland."

"A child of eight years has small need of finery any where, to my thinking," answered Mistress Holland. "I am not one that likes to see a young maid dizzened out. But my brother has prepared a present for the ladies."

"But a web or two of Hollands and black Cyprus lawn, with some packets of spices, sugar, and the like," said my uncle, carelessly. "And since your reverence is pleased to like the white wine, I have ordered a case to be put up for your own drinking. 'Tis a light and wholesome beverage."

"Many thanks—many thanks!" said the monk. "Some people might say you meant to secure a good reception for your niece—but, indeed, you need not fear for her," he added, kindly. "The house at Dartford is of good repute, and our prioress is a most excellent lady, of the noble family of Percy. Most of our sisters are also gentlewomen of good family. I give you my word, Master Corbet, that Mistress Loveday shall have every care, though I dare not promise her such feasts and luxuries as Mistress Holland provides."

"Luxuries are of little account to children, but kindness is every thing," said my uncle.

"And that, I promise you, she shall not lack," answered the priest, seriously; then, turning to me: "Come, daughter, ask your uncle's blessing, and take leave of your cousins. Some day, perhaps, they may come and see you, but it skills not lingering when parting must come at last."

Mechanically, I kneeled to my uncle, who folded me in his arms.

"The blessing and prayers of an unworthy sinner go with thee, my poor child!" said he. "Remember, whatever happens, thou wilt ever have a home and a portion in thy uncle's house."

"She may need it yet, if things go on as they have begun," muttered the priest.

My cousins kissed me, and sobbed out their farewells as well as they could for weeping. I went out to the side door, where the priest's sleek mule, and my uncle's two men were waiting with their animals. My uncle kissed me again as he lifted me to my place behind Jacob Saunders, and whispered:

"I shall come to see thee soon, dear child. Try to be happy, and remember my house and heart are always open when you need a home."

"Why did you send me away, then?" I said bitterly, more to myself than him.

He heard me though, and answered, solemnly:

"Because I was a hasty fool, child. Pray for your poor uncle, and if you can, for your own sake, forgive him."

The priest now mounted his mule, and exchanged a courteous farewell with my uncle and aunt. The beasts were put in motion, we turned the corner, and in a moment, I lost sight of the house where I had been so happy for four long months. It was many a year before I saw it again. So closed one chapter of my life. It always did seem to me that I left my childhood behind me at that moment.

I have been the more particular in my account of my days in London, as matters have so greatly changed since that time. The little almshouses where we used to go to carry milk to the poor bedesmen and women are all swept away, and the ground mostly built over. What became of the old people I know not, but Sir Thomas Audley came into possession of the land, which he afterward gave to Maudlin College at Cambridge. There is not a religious foundation of any kind left in London, and St. Anthony and his pigs are equally to seek. St. Paul's hath been burned to the ground—by lightning, as was believed at the time and long after, till the sexton confessed on his death-bed that it was by his own fault—and is now in process of rebuilding.

The city of London is almost twice as large as it was then; many places which I knew as open fields being built up, and whole streets stretching out into the country. America, which at that time was not known to many people at all—I am sure I never heard of it till I came to London—is now visited by English ships every year, and merchandise brought from thence. It is a changed world, and on the whole much for the better, whatever old folks may say.

[CHAPTER IV.]

A NEW LIFE.

WHEN we reached the Strand, we found the rest of our escort waiting for us before a handsome house which I had often seen in my walks. There were two or three stout fellows well-armed, and a sober, somewhat vinegar-faced man, dressed like a steward or something of that sort. Two other men led palfreys caparisoned for women's use. As we drew near and joined the group, the door opened and two ladies were led forth. They were closely veiled, yet I could see that one was young and handsome. As she was put upon her horse, she raised her veil for a moment and looked about with a wild, despairing glance, like that of some small, helpless, trapped animal, seeking a way of escape. In a moment, the veil was dropped again, the other lady mounted her horse, and the whole cavalcade set forward as briskly as the state of the road would permit.

The fresh, sharp, autumn air; the quick movement, and the change of scene, roused me a little from the heavy stupor of grief and rage—I know not what else to call it—which had oppressed me, and I began to look about me. Father Austin seemed to note the change, and began gently to point out different objects of interest. He showed me the house where he himself was born and brought up—a comfortable old red brick hall, looking like the very home of peace and plenty in its ancient elm and nut trees, and began to tell me little tales of his boyhood, of his mother and sisters and his pet rabbits.

At first I was conscious of nothing but a wish to be let alone, but almost insensibly I began to listen, to be interested, and asked little questions. The sharp, heavy distress was at my heart still, but as one suffering from the pain of a wound is yet willing to be a little diverted from his misery, albeit the pain is not lessened thereby, so I was not sorry to listen to the kind father's tale. Presently we passed a building shut in by high walls, like a convent, and as the road wound close by the gate, we could hear within sounds of somewhat unbridled mirth and laughter.

"What house is that?" asked the steward, who rode close by us.

"It was the house of Our Lord once," said the father, dryly. "Now it belongs to Master Cromwell."

The man bit his lip as if he had received some sort of check, and fell back a little. The house was, in fact, one of the many small convents which had fallen during the past few years.

We stopped at a way-side inn for some refreshment, and one of the men brought me a glass of small ale, but I could not take it, and begged for a drink of pure water instead. My head ached, and I felt parched with thirst. The priest asked the buxom hostess who brought me the water, if there were any news.

"Nothing your reverence, save that the foxes have caught and carried off two or three lambs, but 'tis thought their den will be broken up before long."

I saw two or three of the men who were standing about wink at each other as if there were some jest concealed under the woman's words. Father Austin answered her gently:

"There are many sorts of foxes, and other beasts also, which spoil the flocks, and the worst of all, are wolves which come in sheep's clothing: remember that, my daughter."

Young and distraught as I was, I could not but notice the difference between the treatment of the priest here, and that which he would have received in our neighborhood at Peckham Hall. There, whenever the abbot or Father Barnaby rode abroad, all bowed before them, as if they had been the pope himself, and even our own old fat, sleepy Sir John, was greeted with bared heads; but here, such as we met contented themselves with a careless lifting of hat or cap for a moment, and many gave Father Austin no greeting at all. Others on the contrary were very forward in craving his blessing, even kissing the hem of his robe or the furniture of his mule.

The two ladies rode along close together, but never, that I could see, exchanging a word. However, the elder did speak to the younger once or twice, but she got no answer save an impatient shake of the head. It was now drawing toward evening, and I well remember how the level rays of the setting sun shone through the orchards, making the ripening apples glow like balls of gold and fire among the dusky leaves. The sight recalled so clearly to my mind the orchards of my native West Country, that when we ascended a little rising ground, and the priest remarked that we should soon see home, I looked out, expecting for a moment to behold the gray battlements of Peckham Hall. But no doubt my head was bewildered even then by the fever which was stealing over me.

"There, daughters, that is your future home," said Father Austin, pointing downward, when we had attained the top of the little eminence.

The younger lady uttered an exclamation of some sort, and turned her horse as though she would have fled, but her sister and the steward both at once laid their hands upon her bridle rein, and she made no further move. I roused myself from the sort of stupor that was bewildering me, and looked. I saw a large garden and orchard, surrounded by a high stone wall, having an embattled gateway. In the midst was a pile of old red brick buildings and a church. The little river Darent ran close by, and a stream seemed to be diverted from it to water the convent grounds; I could see the water sparkling in the sun. It was, I suppose, the hour of recreation; for various black-veiled and white-veiled figures were walking in the orchard and garden, while even at this distance, the fitful sound of music reached our ears. It was indeed a sweet and peaceful scene.

"That is Sister Cecilia practicing in the church! We have the best pair of organs in all the country," said Father Austin, with simple pride; "there is nothing like them in all London."

We now put our horses to a brisk pace, and passing through the gateway I have spoken of, we entered a sort of paved outer court, where the men dismounted, and we women folk were also taken from our horses. We were led through an inner gate which opened upon a long paved walk leading up through the orchard and garden to the house. I was growing more and more confused; but I remember well all the sisters pausing to look at us, as was but natural, poor things, and my feeling an unreasoning anger against them for so doing. I have also a vivid impression of some bright flowers growing by the path. Two or three of the dark-robed group now came forward to meet us.

"Here are our new daughters," said the priest, "and tired enough they are, poor things. I fear the child is not well."

"Holy Virgin! I trust she hath not brought the sickness among us," said one of the number, shrinking back.

"I dare say she is only weary with her journey," said a kind voice, and one of the ladies took my hand to lead me into the house. "Come with me, my child, and we will find some supper and a bed for these tired little bones."

I am conscious of hearing the words, but they sounded far and strange, as talk does in the very early morning, when one is half-asleep. I heard also an exclamation of surprise and pity, and then my senses failed me. The next I knew, I found myself being undressed and put into bed, while my teeth chattered and every limb was shaking under the influence of a strong ague.

From that time, for several weeks, my recollections are mostly a blank. I remember begging for water, water, and loathing the apple-tea and gruel they brought me instead. I remember seeing people about me and hearing voices, but it is all dim and dreamlike. At last, one day, I woke and saw Father Austin standing by my bed, with a lady so exactly like him, that if they had changed clothes no one would have known which was which.

"Water!" I gasped. It was always my first word on waking.

"Do you think I might give her a little?" asked the lady. "She does crave it so, poor little thing."

"Yes, give her what she wants; it will make no difference," said the priest, sadly.

He went away, and the lady brought me a small cup of cool, fresh water. I drained every drop and begged for more.

"You shall have more by and by, if this does not hurt you," said the lady. "Be a good child."

I dropped again into a doze. When I waked, I was alone, and the jug, from which my nurse had poured the water, stood on a little table near by. An overmastering desire took possession of me. I crept out of bed, and, steadying myself by the wall, I reached the jug, and though I could hardly lift it so as to get at its contents, I drained every drop. There must have been nearly a quart. Then getting back into bed, I fell asleep and slept soundly. I woke from a dream of my home before I went to Peckham Hall, and found that it was dark and the lady I had seen before was standing by me with a light in her hand. She bent down and put her hand on my forehead.

"The saints be praised, here is a blessed change," said she. "The fever is wholly gone, and your skin is cool and moist. Do you feel better?"

I made a motion of assent. Now that the fever had left me, I was as weak as an infant.

"Well, well. Perhaps the water did you good, after all. Do you want more?"

I nodded. She took up the jug, and seemed surprised to find it empty, but asked no questions, and gave it to an attendant outside, who presently returned, and I had another delightful drink, but I was not so thirsty as before.

"Do you think you could eat something, my child?" asked my new friend.

I assented eagerly, for I had begun to feel decidedly hungry. She again gave some orders to the person outside, who, by and by, brought I know not what delicate preparation of milk. I took all that was given me, and would gladly have had more.

From that hour my recovery was rapid, and I was soon able to walk about the room, which was a large one with several beds, and was, indeed, the infirmary for the pupils. Then I was allowed to walk in the gallery, and so, by degrees, I took my place in the family, and began to understand somewhat of its constitution and politics.

Dartford nunnery was a place of no little consequence in my time, having some twenty professed nuns besides the prioress and other needful officers, such as sacristan, mother assistant and mistress of novices. It was a wealthy foundation, owning, besides its fair home domain, other wide fields and orchards which brought in a good revenue. Most, if not all of the sisters were ladies of family and breeding.

The house had a good reputation for sanctity, and certainly there were no scandals in my time, or at least so I think, and I was always sufficiently sharp-sighted.

When I was able to walk about and see my new home, which was not till cold weather, I had to confess that it was a fair one. The garden was very large and contained many fine fruit trees, apples, plums, and cherries, besides great grape vines and apricots, trained in curious fashion against the south wall.

The house had been founded in 1371, and it was said, though I doubt it, that a part of the first fabric was still standing in my time. Any how some of the building was very old, and it had been added to as convenience dictated, till there was no regularity to it; yet the material being the same throughout, and the walls much overgrown with ivy, there subsisted a certain harmony in the parts which was pleasing to the eye.

The church was a fine one and contained some valuable relics, such as Mary Magdalene's girdle—she must have had a good many girdles in her time—a bottle containing some smoke from the Virgin's fire, and a glass of St. Anne's tears, * with others which I don't now remember, all inclosed in rich reliquaries and boxes, or highly ornamented shrines. They were exposed in the church on feast days for the adoration of the faithful.

* All these relics are authentic, and may be found in Leighton's list contained in his letters.

But the faithful were not so much disposed to adore as in times past. The leaven of incredulity was spreading among the poor, and the new Learning, as it was called, among the rich. It was understood that the king himself had his doubts about such matters; he was at drawn daggers with the pope about his divorce; the great cardinal was in disgrace and likely to lose all his preferments, and nobody knew what was likely to come next.

But we young ones, shut in by the gray stone walls, were happily unconscious of the storms that raged without. Children are easily reconciled to any change that is not greatly for the worse, and I soon became as much at home as if I had always lived here. I must needs say that every one was kind to me, especially so when I was recovering.

I used to have terrible fits of homesickness, which were not lessened by the anger which still dwelt in my heart against my uncle. These usually ended in a fit of crying and that in a chill, so it is no wonder that Mother Joanna (that was the name of the Mistress of the Novices) had a dread of them. So, at the last, she took to setting me tasks and work, and finding that I had a talent for music, she put Sister Cicely upon giving me lessons upon the lute and in singing, which lessons have since been of great use to me.

At my first recovery from my sickness, as I have said, my mind was almost a blank; but by and by my memory came back and I began to recollect and compare things, and to ask questions. Mother Joanna liked me about her when she was busy. Her eyesight was not as good as it had been, and she found it convenient to have me thread her needles when she was sewing, and do other little offices for her. One day, she was preparing some work for the children (for we had a day-school in a little house near the gate, where the girls from the village learned to sew and spin and to say their prayers); one day, I say, when we were thus engaged, I ventured to ask:

"Dear mother, did my uncle come to see me when I was sick?"

"No, child, your uncle is gone abroad, as I understand, to Holland, about some matters of business—but your aunt sent to inquire for you twice."

"Who came?" I inquired.

"How do I know, child! You ask too many questions. It was an elderly serving man with a scar on his face."

"Joseph Saunders," I said. "Do you know if my aunt and cousins were well?"

"Yes, they are all well. I asked because I thought you would like to know."

"Dear mother, you are very kind."

"Well, I mean to be kind, and so I am going to talk plainly to you, child. You must give up all notion of going back to your uncle's house, for that will never be. My Lady Peckham has given you to this house—she having absolute control of you since Sir Edward's death—"

"Is Sir Edward dead?" I asked, in dismay.

"Yes, he died in Scotland. There, don't cry, my dear; I thought you knew it, or I would not have told you so suddenly. I know it is natural for you to grieve for him, but we must curb even natural affections when they stand in the way of our duty."

But I could not help crying. Sir Edward had been uniformly kind to me, and I loved him dearly. The news of his death was a dreadful shock, and the end of it was, that I had another ague and was sick for several days.

When I got able to be about again, I was sent for to the prioress's parlor. I had hitherto seen this lady, only at an awful distance, and, so far as I know, she had never spoken to me. She was a very great lady being some way, I know not how, akin to Bishop Gardner.

By the rule of our constitution, we were to elect a prioress every three years, but there was nothing to hinder the same person from being elected again and again, and Mother Paulina was such a Queen Log that I imagine nobody cared to get rid of her. She was an indolent, easy-going body, caring, I do think, more for her own ease and comfort than any thing else, and very little troubled as to how matters went in the house, so long as they did not come in her way. Like many such persons, however, she now and then took a fit of activity and authority, when she would go about the house interfering in every body's business whether she knew any thing about the matter in hand or not, giving contradictory orders and setting things generally at sixes and sevens. This happily accomplished, and her conscience discharged, she would relapse into her great chair and her indolence again, and leave matters to settle as they might.

One of these fits was on her just now. She had been out in the garden in the morning, scolding the gardener about the management of the winter celery and the training of the apricots, of which she knew as much as she did of Hebrew. I saw her two attendant sisters fairly laughing behind her back.

As for the gardener, he was a sober old Scotsman, who had come to this country in the train of some of the banished Scots lords, and liked it too well to leave it. He understood his business, and his mistress, too. He would stand, cap in hand, in an attitude of the deepest humility, listening to his lady's lectures and throwing in a word now and then, as—

"Na doot, madam! Ye'll hae the right o't. I would say so!"

Then he would go on his own course, precisely as if she had not spoken, and she, having said her say without contradiction, would imagine she had had her own way. (It is not a bad way to deal with unreasonable people, as I have learned by experience.)

I found the lady sitting in her great chair, beside a table on which was a crucifix of gold and ivory, a vase for holy water, and a box which I supposed to contain some holy relic. A handsome rug was before her chair, and she rested her feet on an embroidered hassock. According to the custom of the house, two sisters stood behind her. The younger sisters took this duty in rotation.

"So!" said she, when I had made my obeisance. "You are the child who was sent hither by my Lady Peckham."

This in a severe tone, as if I had been much to blame for being such a child.

"And why did not you come hither at once, instead of stopping four months in London, and putting me to all that trouble of looking over poor Sister Benedict's things, and finding my lady's letter."

To which I could only answer that I did not know. As if a little chit like myself would have any hand in her own disposal.

"Well, now you are here, you must be content. Mother Joanna says you are homesick and make yourself ill by crying. That must be stopped. If I hear any more of it, I will try what virtue is in a birch twig to cure ague. I am afraid you are a naughty child, or your uncle would not have been in such a hurry to get rid of you."

How easy it is for idle or careless hands to gall a sore wound. Her words were like a stab to me, but I set my teeth and clenched my hands and made no sign.

"But now you must understand, once for all, that I will have no more crying or homesickness!" pursued the lady, who was like a stone that once set a-going down hill rolls on by its own weight.

"You are in a good home and a holy house, where you may grow up without danger of being infected by the heresies, which, as we hear, are so rife in London. Your good mistress, Lady Peckham, will give you a dowry when you are professed, and some time you may come to be prioress, and sit in this chair; who knows?" concluded the lady, relapsing into an easy talking tone, having, I suppose, sustained her dignity as long as was convenient. "So now be a good child, and here is a piece of candied angelica for you!" she added, taking the cover from what I had taken for a reliquary, "and pray don't let us have any more crying."

I took the sweetmeat with a courtesy, and afterward gave it to one of the lay sisters, having no great fondness for such things.

"And how did you leave my Lady Peckham?" pursued the prioress; then, without waiting for an answer: "We were girls at school together, though she was older than I—oh, yes, quite a good deal older, I should say. Let me see, she married twice, I think. What was her first husband's name?"

"Walter Corbet, madam?" I managed to say.

I was feeling very queer by that time, being weak and unused to standing so long. The prioress was pursuing her catechism, when I saw the two attendant sisters look at each other, and then one of them bent down as if to whisper in the lady's ear. That was the last I did see or know till I woke, as it were, to find myself on the floor, with one of the sisters bathing my face with some strong waters, and the prioress fussing about, wringing her hands and calling on all the saints in the calendar. I felt very dreamy and strange, and, I fancy, lost myself again, for the next thing I heard was Mother Joanna's voice, speaking in the tone which showed she was displeased.

"You kept her standing too long, that is all. Nobody recovering from a fever should be kept standing."

"You don't think she will die, do you, mother?" asked one of the sisters, I do believe out of sheer mischief.

"Holy Virgin! You don't think so?" cried the prioress. "Holy Saint Joseph! What shall I do? Send for Father Austin, somebody, quick! Bring her the holy Magdalene's girdle, or the thumb of Saint Bartholomew. Holy Magdalene! I will vow—"

"Reverend mother, please do be quiet!" interposed Mother Joanna, with very little ceremony. "The child is not dying, if she be not scared to death by all this noise. Sister Priscilla, go and see that her bed is ready. Come, Loveday," in her crisp, kindly tone, "rouse yourself, child. Why, that is well!" As I opened my eyes—"There, don't try to sit up, but take what the sister is giving you, and we will soon have you better. Open the casement a moment, Sister Anne; the room is stifling."

"Really, sister!" said the prioress, in an injured tone, "I think you should remember that you are in my apartment, before you take such a liberty. The child will do well enough, I dare say. It is more than half pretense to get herself noticed, and I believe might be whipped out of her," she pursued, for having a little gotten over her fright, she was beginning to be angry with the cause of it.

Mother Joanna treated the reproof and the suggestion with equally little ceremony, and gathering me up in her strong arms, she bore me off to my bed in the dormitory, and went to bring me some soup. I was quite myself in a few hours, and from that time, my health improved so that I was soon as well as I had ever been in my life. Every one was kind to me, as I have said. I went to work with great zeal at my lessons in music and needlework, both of which I loved.

One day, I was holding some silk for Sister Denys. She was the novice who had entered the house at the same time as myself, and had taken the white veil while I was ill. She was very young, and, but for her unvarying expression of listless sadness, would have been very pretty; but she moved more like a machine, than a living creature, never spoke if she could help it, and faded day by day, like a waning moon. I more than once saw Mother Joanna shake her head sadly as she looked at the poor thing.

Well, as I said, I was holding some thread for her, when somehow, I don't know how it happened, I made use of a Latin phrase. I saw that she started, and her eyes brightened.

"Do you know Latin, child—I mean, so as to understand it?"

I was as much surprised as if the image of Mary Magdalene in the chapel had spoken to me, but I made haste to answer—

"Yes, Sister Denys; I have learned it for two or three years. And I have read through the 'Orbis Sensualium Pietus;' * and some of Cornelius Nepos, and I have read a part of St. Matthew his Gospel in the Vulgate—" (so I had, with my uncle). "I wish I had lessons here," I added, regretfully. "I have forgot so much since I had the fever, and I love my Latin, because I used to read it with Walter."

* I am not sure that I have not antedated this wonderful schoolbook.

"Who was Walter—your brother?"

"No, sister; my cousin," and then, in answer to her questions, I began, nothing loth, to tell her of my home in Somersetshire.

Presently she dropped the silk, and I saw she was weeping bitterly.

"Never mind, little maiden—you have done me good," she said at last, as I stood by her side, dismayed at her sorrow, yet feeling by instinct that it was better to let her have her cry out, without calling any one. She made a great effort to check her sobs, and presently, kissing me, she added:

"I know Latin, and I will teach you, if the mother is willing."

"I am sure she will be willing!" I answered. "She said herself it was a pity I should lose what I had gained."

And the mother passing at the moment, I preferred my petition to her. I think she was unfeignedly pleased to see poor Sister Denys interested in any thing. She did not go through the usual form of referring to the prioress, as indeed, she was not obliged to do, she having the whole care of the novices and pupils, but bade me fetch my books, which had been sent me from London, and take a lesson on the spot.

For a while these lessons went on very prosperously. Sister Denys was a good Latin scholar, and finding that I was diligent, reasonably quick, and liked learning for its own sake, she began also to teach me French. All that winter I studied hard, and between Sister Denys, Sister Cicely, with her music lessons, and Sister Theresa, with her embroidery, I had my hands full. I did no more work than was good for me, and had plenty of play and sleep, and, on the whole, I was very well content with my new home, though I used, now and then, to have fits of longing after my Aunt Joyce and my cousins.

One day in spring, I was called to the parlor. Supposing I was wanted to do some errand—I was errand-boy, or rather girl, for the establishment—I went carelessly enough. The prioress was there, with her attendant sisters and mother assistant, and as I came forward to the wide grating that divided the room, I found myself face to face with my aunt and cousins.

What a meeting it was! Aunt Joyce had grown older and looked careworn, and the twins were a head taller, but that was all the change. The mother assistant whispered to the prioress, who assented.

"There, you may go outside the grating and speak to your aunt and cousins, child!" said she. "You are not professed; so it can do no harm."

In another minute I was in my aunt's arms, smothered with kisses, and turning from one to the other in a very bewilderment of joy. I could not help hoping for a moment that they had come to take me away, but my hopes were quickly dashed.

They had come on another errand, namely, to bid me a long farewell. My uncle had been back and forth between London and Antwerp several times, but now he had removed his business wholly to that city, and determined to settle there for the rest of his life. There was a great deal of commerce between Antwerp and London at that time, and more things were brought over in the way of merchandise than passed the customs.

Again the mother assistant whispered the prioress, and then addressed herself to me.

"Loveday, you may take your aunt and cousins to see the church and the garden and orchard. I am sure they will take no undue advantage."

"Surely not, reverend mother!" said my aunt, with a deep reverence. "It will be a great pleasure to me to see my niece's future home. Joseph Saunders is waiting without with a present for the house, and I have ventured to take the liberty of bringing down our cat, if the ladies are fond of such pets. He is a fine creature and somewhat uncommon."

"I saw in a moment that mother assistant was gratified. She loved pet animals, and indeed, that was about the only indulgence she ever permitted herself.

"A cat—oh, yes. Mother assistant will be delighted, I am sure!" said the prioress, rather peevishly. "She loves a cat better than a Christian, any day."

"And my nephew hath sent a case or two of foreign sweetmeats and some Basle gingerbread," * continued my aunt, without noticing this not very dignified outburst—"with some loaves of sugar and a packet of spices. He hopes my lady prioress will condescend to accept them as a token of gratitude for her kindness to his niece."

"Certainly—certainly, and with thanks!" answered the prioress, with alacrity. "Tell him, he shall have our prayers for his journey. I am sure he cannot be inclined to heresy as they say, or he would never send such nice presents to our house."

* Basle then, as now, was famous for its gingerbread, which is, in fact, a rich and spicy kind of iced plum cake—made to keep long.

"There, go child, and show your cousins the garden and the orchard!" said the mother assistant, interposing rather more hastily than was consistent with good discipline. "I will come presently and make acquaintance with this wonderful cat."

I was not slow in availing myself of the permission.

As I stopped to shut the door, whereof the lock was out of order, I heard the prioress say, in an aggrieved tone, "Really, sister—" and I knew she was, as usual, asserting her dignity, and defending her authority, which took a good deal of defending, certainly.

I drew my aunt and cousins out to the gate, and we quickly released Turk from his imprisonment. He was hugely indignant at first. But finding himself among friends, and being invited to partake of refreshment, he very soon smoothed his ruffled plumes, and before long was entirely at home.

"We could not well take him with us, and my uncle thought you would like to have him," said my aunt. "But let us look at you, child. How well you look, and how you have grown. You are happy here, are you not?"

"Yes, aunt!" said I, indifferently. "If I cannot be with you and my cousins, I might as well be here. They are all kind. But oh, aunt, why does my uncle go away so far—and to a strange country, too?"

"I cannot tell you, dear child. He has good reasons, or he would never do so. You may guess it is hard, in my old age, to be transplanted to a foreign soil, and have to learn new ways and new tongues; but God knows best. His will be done."

"There are a great many English in Antwerp, my father says!" observed Katherine.

"Yes, that is true, and some that we know—at least, that your father knows."

"And my father says his house is a fine one—even finer than ours in London," said Avice; "but I know I shall never like it as well."

"But tell me all about it!" said I. "Is Sambo going?"

"Yes, and Anne the launder, and Joseph Saunders, but no one else. Master Davis, the silk mercer, hath hired our house, and he loves flowers as well as my father, so the garden will be cared for."

"I should not think Joseph would go—he is so old!"

"He hath been there with my nephew and knows the ways and the language; so he will be a help in getting settled!" said Aunt Joyce, who seemed to feel the change far more than the girls, as was indeed natural. "But, after all, life is short, and Paradise is as near to Antwerp as to London. That is the great comfort. But Loveday, now that we are alone together, I must give you your uncle's charge and his letter."

The letter was short, but earnest. My uncle bade me make myself contented so far as I could, but he charged me to remember that I was not to be professed till I was twenty-one.

"Should any thing happen to make you need a home—as is not impossible, if I read the signs of the times aright," so the letter proceeded, "do you go to my old friend, Master Davis, the silk mercer, who will always know where I am, and how to send to me. His wife is a good woman, and they will gladly give you a home."
My uncle concluded by once more asking my forgiveness for his hasty action, and most solemnly gave me his blessing.

My aunt bade me give her back the letter, and I did so, however reluctantly, knowing that it would not be well to have it found with me. In a convent, nothing is one's own, and one is all the time watched.

When we had seen the garden and orchard, the church and such other parts of the domain as it was proper to show to strangers, we were called into the refectory where an elegant little repast was provided, of which I was allowed to partake with them. The time for parting came all too soon, for the ride to town was not a short one, and though the days were now at the longest, the party could not more than reach home before dark.

I will not dwell on that sorrowful parting. Mother Joanna led me away, and when I had wept awhile, she began to quiet me. She said what was true, that I had been greatly indulged in being allowed such free intercourse with my friends, and that I must show my gratitude by striving to restrain my grief so as not to make myself ill. She said a good deal, too, in her sweet, gentle way, of submitting our wills to the will of Heaven, because that will is sure to be best for us, since our heavenly Father seeing the end from the beginning, and having, as it were, our whole lives spread out before him, can judge far better than we can. (I began to observe, about this time, that while the prioress and the other ladies invoked saints by the gross on all occasions, the mother assistant and Mother Joanna rarely or never did so.) The dear mother understood me well. I saw the reasonableness of what she urged, and made a great effort to control my feelings, and though my pillow was wet with tears for that, and more than one night afterward, I took care that my grief should be troublesome to no one.

It was not long after my aunt's visit, that another friend was taken, who proved a great loss to me, and that was Sister Denys. She had gradually improved in health, and I believe the interest she took in my lessons was a great benefit to her; but I do not think she became a whit more reconciled to her way of life. She used to remind me of a vixen * Walter had, which, though tame enough to know and love her keeper, and eat out of his hand, did yet never give up trying to escape from her captivity. I remember old Ralph saying that if the creature did once really give up the hope of getting away, she would die.

* All my readers may not know that Vixen is the proper name of a female fox.

Sister Denys was like that vixen, I think—the hope of escape kept her alive. About this time, she began greatly to frequent a little chapel of our patron saint built in our orchard, and more than once I had seen her talking with an old man, a great, awkward, shambling creature with one eye, whom old Adam, our Scotch gardener, had hired to assist him. I wondered what she wanted with him, but I had learned by that time enough of convent politics to see much and say nothing.

One fine morning, Sister Denys and the old lame gardener were both missing, and when I ventured to ask what had become of them, I was told that Sister Denys had gone to another house to be professed, and that the gardener had been dismissed. Young as I was, a kind of inkling of the truth came over me, but I did not know the whole of it till long and long after that time. Of course, there was not a word of truth in the story, but almost any thing is allowable to save scandal, as the phrase is, and a pretty big fib told in the interest of the church is, at worst, a venial sin.

[CHAPTER V.]

THE THUNDER STRIKES.

I DO not propose to go very minutely into the details of my convent life. I remained at Dartford for several years, fairly content for the most part, though I now and then had a great desire after more freedom. I wearied of the trim grass plots, the orderly garden, and the orchard shut in from the rest of the world by high walls, and longed to find myself in the open fields, with no visible bound to my footsteps. I remembered my uncle's house in London, and wished myself back there, or with the family in their new home. For a time after their removal to Antwerp, I heard from the family. At least twice a year, a packet came with letters for me, and some valuable present for the house, of spice, or comfits, or wonderful lace, such as they know how to make in those parts. But after a time, these packets stopped coming, and for many a year, I had no news of these dear ones at all.

I had one visit from my Lady Peckham during this time. She came to London on some business about her husband's estate, which could not be easily settled, as there was no absolute proof that Randall was dead. The next heir was a distant relation of Sir Edward's, who lived near London. But this gentleman was an easy-going sort of person I fancy, or perhaps he did not care about burying himself in that wild part of Somersetshire. Any how, he agreed, in consideration of a certain share of the rents of the estate, to let Lady Peckham live in the house as long as she pleased. She had brought Sir Edward a good fortune, which was settled wholly on herself, so she was very well-to-do.

It seemed to me that she had altered very little. She had accepted the mantle and veil, and made the vow of perpetual widowhood, and so might be looked upon as, in some sort, a religious person as the phrase went in those times. She staid with us a month or more, and was, or professed to be, very much edified, though I think she was rather scandalized at the easiness of our rule, which was, indeed, very different from the discipline which used to be enforced at the house to which I had been first destined at Bridgewater. I do not mean to say that there was any disorder—far from it: but things went on in a comfortable, business-like fashion. There were so many services to be gone through, and they were gone through with all due gravity and decorum. We had beautiful singing, which people came from far and near to hear. We kept our fast days strictly enough as regards the eating of flesh meat, but our own stews gave us abundance of fish, and our orchard and garden supplied fruit and vegetables, so that we certainly did not suffer from our abstinence.

However, I suppose my lady must have been well pleased on the whole, for she tried very hard to make me consent to take the white or novice's veil. This, however, I would not do, pleading my solemn promise to Sir Edward and my uncle Gabriel. My lady declared that such promises made by a child amounted to nothing, and appealed to Father Austin. I don't know what he said to her, but it must have been something conclusive, since she said no more to me on the matter.

I ventured to ask about my old friend and playmate, Walter Corbet. She told me that he was still with Sir John Lambert, at Bridgewater, assisting in the care of the parish, but that he had some prospect of a new field of his own in Devon, not far from my old home.

"'Tis a wild and lonely place, and almost a savage people, so I am told," said my lady. "But Walter seems to think the prospect of burying himself among them a delightful one. Oh, if he would but have taken the vows at Glastonbury, he might come to be abbot in time, instead of living and dying in the gray walls of Ashcombe vicarage."

But those same gray walls are still whole and warm, while Glastonbury is but a stately ruin, wasted by all the airs that blow freely through its deserted halls. This, by the way.

My lady left us, as I have said, at the end of a month, to return to Peckham Hall, though at her first coming she had talked of spending the remainder of her days among us. But I think she was wise. Such a life as ours would not have suited her at all. She liked to rule wherever she was, and had been used many years to almost absolute authority, for Sir Edward rarely interfered in any matter which concerned the household; and she was too old and too set to learn new ways. From something I overheard, I don't think mother assistant favored the notion. I have heard her say myself that a nun ought to be professed before she is twenty. I never saw my lady again, though I heard from her now and then.

Mother assistant was now the real head and ruler of the house, for the prioress grew more and more indolent every day. She excused herself on the score of her health, though I cannot but think she would have been well enough if she had taken more exercise and eaten fewer sweetmeats. She could not have had a better deputy than the mother assistant, who was an excellent woman and well fitted to rule a household. I never saw a woman of a more even temper, and she had that precious faculty of making every one do her best in her own place.

Mother Joanna continued mistress of the novices, though her task was a light one, for we had very few accessions; our elections were regularly gone through with, but they were no more than a form, since the very same officers were elected over and over, save when some one died. Sister Sacristine, who was only a middle-aged woman when I came to Dartford, was growing old and feeble. Two new bursars had been elected. The trees had grown older, and the old Scotch gardener more opinionated. Sister Cicely's hands grew too stiff to manage the organ at times, and I often took her place, and acquitted myself to the satisfaction of my hearers; and these are about all the changes I remember, till the great change of all.

I have said our lives were very quiet, and so they were. But when a storm is raging, it is hard to keep all knowledge or sign of it out of the house. We heard, now and again, rumors of the changes that were going on outside. I remember well when Sister Emma, the stewardess, heard from Dame Hurst, who now and then brought oysters and other sea-fish for sale, that a great English Bible had been chained to a pillar in the parish church at Dartford; where any one who listed could go and hear it read, or read it for themselves, if they pleased. Sister Emma told us this wonderful piece of news when we were all assembled under the grape-arbor, shelling of peas for our fast day mess.

It was received with a degree of horror and amazement, which seems strange as I remember it, now that every householder who can afford it may have a Bible of his own.

"What an indignity!" exclaimed Sister Agnes. "To think that the Holy Scripture should be chained to a pillar, like a man in a pillory, to be thumbed over by every village clown or dirty fisherman who can make shift to spell out a few words."

"You would not compare a pillar in the house of our Lord to a pillory, would you, sister?" asked mother assistant, with that gentle smile of ridicule which I, for one, dreaded more than the rod, when I had been naughty.

"Why, no, reverend mother, not exactly," answered Sister Agnes, in some confusion.

"Any how, it is not the true Word of God, but only the heretics' translation," said Sister Margaret, sharply. "So it does not matter what is done with it."

"I don't know about that," remarked another sister, rather timidly. "I suppose it could not be put in the churches every where, without the consent of the bishops and the other clergy; and they would not allow an heretical and false translation in such a place, surely. Only it is a pity the poor people should be allowed to peril their souls' salvation by reading the Scriptures in the vulgar tongue."

Even then, I remember, it struck me as curious, that peoples' salvation should be endangered by reading the Word of God, but I said nothing.

"They will never put any such thing in my church—chained or unchained—that I know," said Sister Sacristine, with great emphasis, and in her earnestness emptying the peas in her lap among the cods in the basket. "I would tear up the book with my own hands, before such things should be allowed near to the shrine of the Holy Magdalene. Thank the saints, we are not subject either to bishop or archbishop, but to our own visitor, and I am very sure he would never order such a thing."

"In that case, it is hardly worth while to waste one's breath discussing the matter," said mother assistant. "Loveday, you had better pick up the peas that Sister Sacristine has scattered. It is a pity they should be wasted."

"There is no telling what will happen—no telling," said a very old sister, who was warming herself in the sun. "I have strange visions—I do. I saw last night the walls of the fold pulled down, and the sheep scattered far and wide. But I hope it won't come in my time. I have lived here in these very walls almost eighty years, and I don't want to live any where else."

"No, there is no telling, and therefore we may dismiss the subject," said mother assistant. "When they come to ask us to chain a Bible in our church, it will be time for us to refuse it. 'Each day's trouble is sufficient for the same selfe day.'"

The striking of the bell warned us of the end of recreation, and sent us about our several tasks; but the mother's words lingered in my ears, and I found myself wondering again and again where I had heard them before. At last I remembered; I had read them in my uncle's great book—Master Tyndale's book of the New Testament, as I afterward knew it to be—on the very first day that I came to London.

Well, the days went on, and though we heard rumors of this and that—of the disgrace of poor Queen Katherine (which I do maintain was an infamous shame), and the marriage of the King with Anne Boleyn, mother of our present good Queen—of the burning of heretics here and there, and the king's taking church matters more and more into his own hands—though, as I say, we heard rumors of all these things, they did not greatly disturb our peace. Our gray circling walls were like the magic circle of the enchanter, and though strange and malign shapes were seen in very active exercise outside its bounds, yet none had as yet broken through. But our time was to come.

It was on a pleasant day in the end of September, in the year of grace 1538, that the first blow fell upon us.

By the same token we had, on that very day, buried old Turk in the garden under a beautiful laylock tree. The poor old cat had been very decrepit for a long time, having lost most of his teeth, so that he had to be fed with hashed meat, and bread soaked in cream. Old Adam had said more than once that the poor thing would be better put out of his pain, but I don't believe you could have hired him to do the deed—no, not with a Dutch tulip-root.

Well, it was on that very day that, coming in from the orchard with a basket of early apples, I saw Father Austin walking up the paved path, which led from his house to the church, with such a perturbed face as I never saw him wear before. He passed through the church, and presently the whole family were called together in a great hall which joined the church, and was called—I don't know why—the chapter-room. It was the room in which our elections were held, and was seldom or never used on other occasions. There we were, old and young, all standing according to our degree, and some of us looking scared enough, for rumor flies fast, and we all had an idea that something dreadful was going to happen.

The prioress sat in her great chair, with her attendant sisters behind her, and looked about with a dazed, helpless expression. She had grown very stout and unwieldy, and some of us thought she was not quite right in her mind. The elders of the house were at her right hand, and near by stood Father Austin and another priest, with a thin, clever, crafty face, whom we knew to be Bishop Gardiner's chaplain, and a person of great consideration. I always had a dislike to this man; chiefly because the shape of his head—very flat behind, and with prominent angles at the jaw-bones—reminded me of a viper. I could not help thinking at that moment that he watched the prioress as a viper might watch a fat frog on which he had a design.

When we were all settled, Father Austin raised his hand, and spoke: "My mothers and sisters, your reverend prioress has called you together to hear a most important message which our visitor has sent us by his chaplain, Father Simon, who will now deliver the same."

With that he was silent, and Father Simon spoke. I cannot remember his words, but the gist of the matter was this: The king had wholly broken off with the pope, and, by consent of the parliament, had proclaimed himself supreme head of the English Church. All bishops, heads of religious houses, and certain other officers were required to take the oath of supremacy, as it was called, under severe penalties—even that of death—as was like to be the case with the Bishop of Rochester, who was now in prison and threatened with the loss of his head. (He really did come to the scaffold soon after.) It was probable that commissioners would shortly be sent to our house to administer this oath, and Bishop Gardiner—who, though not our bishop, was our regular visitor by some ecclesiastical arrangement which I never understood—had himself taken this oath, and advised us to submit to the same, as a necessity of the times.

I was watching the prioress's face during this harangue, which was delivered in a very gentle and insinuating manner. (My eyes should have been on the ground, but they have always had an unlucky trick of wandering.) I say, mine eyes should have been on the ground, but they were watching our mother's face instead, and I was surprised to see the change that came over it, as the words and meaning of the father's address penetrated her understanding. Usually her visage had about as much expression as a slack-baked pie, and was nearly the same color. By degrees, as she understood the matter, her dull eyes opened wide, and grew bright and clear, her loose under-lip was compressed, and a little color came into her cheeks. When the chaplain was silent, she spoke, and with such a clear voice and so much dignity of manner that the sisters glanced at each other in surprise.

"I am somewhat slow of comprehension, good father. I pray you bear with me, if my questions seem not to the purpose. What is it that the king hath declared himself?"

The chaplain once more explained that the king now called himself supreme head of the church.

"But the pope—our Holy Father at Rome—is supreme head of the church in all Christendom!" said the prioress. "How, then, can that title belong to His Grace, the King of England? There cannot be two supreme heads."

I saw the chaplain cast a keen glance of satirical amusement at Father Austin before he proceeded to explain once more that the king, having quarreled with the pope, in the matter of his wife's divorce and some other things, utterly denied him any authority or jurisdiction over the realm of England or its dependencies, and required all persons to submit to him, as formerly to the pope.

"But he is not the head, so what difference does it make what he calls himself?" persisted the prioress. "And how can the bishop, who is himself sworn to obey the pope in all things, obey the king when the king is opposed to him."

"I am not here to explain or justify the conduct of your venerable visitor, reverend mother!" said the chaplain, rather arrogantly. "But only to convey you his counsels and commands. The further continuance of this holy community—nay, your own life—may depend on your obedience. You would not like to be put in prison, like the Bishop of Rochester!"

Knowing the mother's love of ease, I suppose he thought this a knock-down argument, but he was mistaken. One may know a person very well, and yet not be able to foretell what that person will do in an emergency.

"I should not like it at all!" said the prioress. "It would be very uncomfortable to lie upon straw and have nothing but bread and water, and cold water always makes me ill. But I do not see how that makes any difference about the pope being head of the church, and if he is supreme head, then the king cannot be. That is all about it."

With that the chaplain took on a higher tone, and began to bluster a little. Would she, a mere woman, pretend to sit in judgment not only on a bishop and her visitor, but also on the king himself? Was it not her duty as a religious to have no mind of her own, but only to do as she was told?

"You did not think so, reverend father, when the question was of placing an English Bible in the church for the sisters to read when they pleased!" said the prioress. "That was the king's will, too, as I understand, and yet both our visitor and yourself said I was right in refusing, because ours was not a parish church. And the very Bible that was sent down lies locked up in the press in the sacristy. Does it not, mother assistant?"

"It was there at one time, but I have had it removed to a safer place!" answered the mother assistant, quietly. I saw the sisters exchange glances of amazement from under their down-dropped lids. This was the first time we had heard of any such book. But that is the way in a convent. A measure which affects your very life may be settled, and you be none the wiser.

"Very well, reverend mother, I shall say no more at this time!" said the chaplain, after a moment's pause. "I will report to your reverend visitor that you have decided to take matters into your own hands, and that being the case, he will doubtless leave this house and its inhabitants to their fate—that fate which has already overtaken so many religious communities. When the commissioners come down and you see your revenues confiscated and your daughters turned out, and the beautiful shrine of the Holy Magdalene stripped of all its ornaments and treasures, I hope you will be satisfied with your contumacy."

"I shall not be satisfied at all, and I don't want my daughters turned out!" said the prioress. "And I am not contumacious, either. I have always done just as our visitor directed about every thing, and you know I have, Father Simon; only I can't see how the king can be supreme head of the church, when the pope is the head! I would lay down my life for this house!" she added, raising herself from her chair and standing erect with a dignity that might have belonged to St. Katherine of Egypt, or any other sainted queen. "I would be torn by wild beasts before my dear, dutiful children should be turned out upon the world; but I can not deny the authority of our Holy Father the Pope, and put another in his place, without greater and better reason than I see now, and so with my humble duty and reverence, you may tell his reverence, Sir Chaplain."

We looked at each other without disguise now, so great was our amazement. If the figure of the Holy Virgin in the Lady Chapel had spoken, we should not have been more surprised. But we had not long to indulge our wonder. I saw the mother assistant move nearer to the prioress, and in another instant the poor lady had sunk down in her chair in a fit.

The room was all in confusion for a moment; but nuns, like soldiers, feel the power of habitual discipline, and in a minute or two, mother assistant had restored order. She and the sick-nurse were supporting the prioress, and she called me to help her, as I was one of the strongest of the family, bidding the others betake themselves to the work-rooms, where was their place at this hour.

We carried the lady to her own room, with the help of the two priests—we could hardly have done it without them, she was so heavy—and Father Austin, who was surgeon as well as priest, proceeded to bleed her. The blood would hardly flow at first, but at last it did, and the treatment was so far successful, that the mother opened her eyes, and swallowed the restorative which was put into her mouth, though she did not try to speak, and seemed to know no one. We undressed her, and got her into bed, and then mother assistant dismissed me, bidding me go and take the air a little for that I looked pale. Indeed I had had much ado to keep from fainting, as I had never seen any person bled before, but I summoned all my resolution, and held out.

I went to the workroom where all the sisters were assembled round the frames, on which the new hangings were being worked for the Lady Chapel. We were permitted so much converse as was actually needful, at such times, and not uncommonly the liberty was stretched a little, for, as I said before, the discipline of our house was not over strict; but I never heard such a gabble as was now going on. As I entered and went to the press to find my own particular bit of work (which was a piece of needle lace on a small frame), intending to take it out into the summer-house, I was assailed by a volley of questions.

"How is the reverend mother?" "Hath she spoken?" "Will she die?" "Will she live?" "Will she take the oath?" "Where is the mother assistant, and Mother Joanna?"

It vexed me to see them all so ready to take advantage of their elder's absence, and I answered, rather sharply, I fear.

"How many more? The mother is better, but she has not spoken, and no one knows whether she will live or die—much more whether she will take the oath. As to mother assistant, and Mother Joanna, it is very plain that wherever they are, they are not here. One could tell that half a mile off."

Some of the sisters looked ashamed, but Sister Perpetua answered me sharply:

"You are very pert, Sister Postulant." (That had been my rank for a good while now, for I had no other thought than to end my days at St. Magdalene's.) "It does not become you to reprove and check your elders."

"It does not become her elders to give cause of reproof!" said Sister Bridget, a quiet, retiring woman, the elder of the party: "The child is right, and we have been to blame. As the oldest present, I must request you, sisters, to be quiet and attend to your work."

"You are not the oldest present," answered Sister Perpetua. "Sister Anne is older than you."

"No, indeed, I am not!" said Sister Anne, with some sharpness. "Sister Bridget is fully half a dozen years older than I am, are you not, sister?"

"More than that, I should say," replied Sister Bridget, tranquilly. (N. B. * She was very pretty and young looking, while Sister Anne was both plain and wrinkled.) "But you know as well as I, sister, that it is not age, but standing in the house, that settles such matters. Again, as the oldest present, I must request you, sisters, to pursue your work in silence. Prayers and psalms and holy meditations are better fitted for people in our evil case, threatened not only with the death of our reverend mother, but with the loss of all things, than such laughing and gossip as has gone on for the last half hour. I take shame to myself, and thank the child for her reproof, though it might have been more gently spoken."

* N. B.—nota bene

"I beg your pardon, sister," said I.

She had spoken with a great deal of gravity, and feeling, and most of the sisters had the grace to look ashamed, only Sister Perpetua muttered under her breath, but so I heard her:

"Fine airs, to be sure. But you are not prioress just yet, and many things may happen."

I don't know what brought her to a religious house, I am sure, unless it was that her friends wished to get rid of her, which was the reason a great many nuns were professed in those days. I am very sure she never had any vocation for such a life, and she showed it after she got out.

By that time my faintness was gone, but I thought I would like to be alone, so I told Sister Bridget what mother assistant had said, and withdrew.

I had plenty to think about as I worked. Could it be possible that our house would be turned out of windows, as that of the Gray Nuns at Bridgewater had been—that venerable institution founded in the days of the Confessor—and if so, what would become of all? I had not heard from my uncle, nor from Lady Peckham in several years, and knew not whether they were alive or dead. However, I was not so greatly concerned about my own fate. I was young and strong, a good needle-woman and musician, and I thought I could easily find a place as waiting-woman, or to attend upon young gentlewomen.

But what would become of such as Sister Bridget and Sister Cicely, and Sister Sacristine and Mother Joanna—old women who had spent all their lives in those walls, and knew nothing of the world beyond their boundary. Then I began to think about that Bible and to wonder where it was, and what was in it. I remembered the text mother assistant had quoted, and wondered—not without blaming myself for the thought—if she had read it in that same Bible.

We had heard before, that though people were permitted to read the Word of God, they were forbidden to discuss or dispute about it, which was much as if one should open the floodgates a little and then forbid the water to run through.

I was so lost in my musings, that I started as if I had been shot when the bell rung for vespers. We heard at supper that the prioress had rallied a little, but neither Father Austin nor the doctor, who had been sent for, believed she could get well.

That was an anxious time. The prioress lingered for several days, sometimes quite herself for a few hours at a time, but mostly lying in a death-like stupor. The elders were of course much with her, and the discipline of the house was unusually relaxed.

It was a time that showed what people were made of. The really sincere and religious sisters went on with their duties just as usual, being perhaps a little more punctilious in their performance; others took advantage, broke rules, got together in knots and coteries and gossiped—not always in the most edifying way—of what was coming to pass, and what they would do when they got out. I was very angry with them then, but I can make more excuse for them in these days. Many of them, like Sister Perpetua, had no real calling to a religious life (it was called the religious life in those days, as if no one could be religious out a cloister). They were mostly younger daughters and orphan sisters, who were not likely to marry well and were sent to the convent as a safe and respectable place out of the way. Not that all were so, by any means, but we had enough of that element to rejoice in any relaxation of rules.

One day at sunset, however, the suspense was at an end so far as the prioress was concerned. We were all called into the ante-room of the apartment to assist at the last rites, and after they were over, we stood watching our poor mother who, supported in the arms of mother assistant, was painfully gasping her life away. Her face wore an anxious expression, and her eyes turned from one to another in a way that showed she was quite conscious. Now and then she said a word or two in a low tone—so low that we in the outer room could not hear. At last mother assistant beckoned me, and whispered me to give her a dry napkin from a pile that lay on the table.

As I did so, I heard the prioress say, in a distressed whisper:

"But Purgatory—that dreadful place—are you sure?"

Mother assistant bent down to her and whispered in her ear—I was close by and heard the words plainly:

"The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin."

The poor lady smiled, and just as the last ray of the sun shot into the window, she passed peacefully away.

She was a good woman in the main, and very much of a lady, but she had allowed indolence—coming from an illness in the first place—to grow upon her, till it became an overmastering passion—if one can call indolence a passion.

It came to that, that any call to exertion was looked upon as a positive misfortune. She had such able assistants, that this state of things did not produce so much trouble as might have been expected, but any one who knows what a houseful of ungoverned young people is like, may guess what our community would have become but for Father Austin and mother assistant.

As soon as it was decent, a new meeting was called, and no one was surprised at the choice of mother assistant to be prioress. Mother Joanna was made assistant and Sister Bridget put in her place—a very good choice.

At "obedience," when we were all assembled in her room, our now prioress made us an address, and very noble and touching it was. She reminded us of our precarious condition, likely at any time to be turned out. She said she had been pained to know that some—she would name no names at present—but would leave the matter to our own consciences—had taken advantage of the state of things to behave in a way which was unbecoming their profession, and to good order. Here two or three of our best sisters who had been guilty of some little acts of forgetfulness kneeled down and kissed the floor, while Sister Perpetua and Sister Regina, who had been the ring-leaders, stood up as bold as brass. (It is always those who deserve blame least who take it to themselves.)

She then pointed out the importance of good order and discipline, that our enemies might have nothing whereof justly to accuse us. She would not conceal the fact that we stood in great peril, but we were in higher hands than our own. She would have us neither anxious nor careless, but pursuing a recollected and cheerful frame of mind, giving ourselves to prayer and good works, and not being anxious about the morrow. She would pass over all that had happened for the last few days, unless there were those who wished to clear their consciences by confessing any breach of discipline: but hereafter, every thing would be kept up to the standards of the house. She concluded by asking our prayers for herself and her assistants, in a tone of true humility that brought tears to many eyes. We noticed that she said nothing about praying for the soul of our departed mother, whereby we argued that she believed that soul to be already in Paradise. She then dismissed us with her blessing, and all things seemed to fall into their usual train.

I have heard that people who live where there are volcanoes, get used to them so that they carry on their business just as if nothing was the matter. We were then living on the crust of a volcano which might blow us into the air at any time, but we had already become used to it, and as the autumn passed into winter, we almost forgot our danger. Sister Perpetua, indeed, tried titles once or twice, but she soon found that while the reverend mother had a house over her head, she meant to be mistress in it, and after doing penance three whole days in the vaulted room under the sacristy on a diet of bread and water, and not much of that, she was very meek and subdued for a while.

Somehow or other the storm was diverted for that time. I suppose that Bishop Gardiner, being so great with the king, contrived to keep the matter from his knowledge. However it was, the apples were gathered and garnered in peace, the usual stock of faggots laid in, and we settled down to our in-door occupations as if nothing was the matter.

The reverend mother had a great deal of work put in hand, and instead of our usual whispered conversations, we had loud reading in the Imitation of Christ, and other good books. Sometimes our mother would read us passages out of the Gospels, from a little written book which she held in her hand, copied I fancy from that same great Bible which was never put in the church. I had read many of them before in the great book of Master Tyndale's, which my uncle kept in his desk, and they set me thinking more than ever of mine old home. These readings were much liked by the serious part of our community, and as for the others, what ever they might feel, they knew enough to keep their own counsel.

It was about this time, I remember being struck with the fact that in the whole Imitation, from beginning to end, there is not one single word or hint of any worship offered to the Virgin. I ventured to say as much once to Father Austin, with whom I still did a Latin lesson now and then, and to ask him what he thought was the reason; whereat he smiled, and said when I saw Saint Thomas in Paradise I might ask him.

The orchards bore very plentifully that year, and we sold our crop at a good price. We were helping to pick up the last of them one fine October day, when old Adam remarked that he wondered who would have the ordering of those same trees another year.

"Why, you yourself—why not?" said I.

"Na, na, lassie, I'll no be here next year; at least I think not."

"You do not think you are going to die?" said I, anxiously, for he was a great friend of mine. "Do you feel ill?"

"No, I have my health well enough for one of my years. But we Islesmen have whiles a gliff of the second sight, and I have had strange visions concerning this house."

"Oh, you are thinking about the visit of the commissioners!" said I. "But you see that has blown over and nothing has come of it."

"I have whiles seen a storm blow over and then come back!" said the old man, seriously. "Na, na, lassie. Dinna be too confident. What's fristed * is no forgotten."

* Fristed is "covered up," or "skinned over."

[CHAPTER VI.]

THE LIGHTNING STRIKES AGAIN.

THE old man was right. With the spring came rumors of renewed attacks upon the religious foundations all over the country. We heard before of the execution of the Bishop of Rochester, who laid down his gray head upon the block because he would not acknowledge the king to be pope—for that is what it amounted to. (Nothing can be more absurd than to call Henry the Eighth a Protestant.) Our own prioress might be said to have died in the same cause.

Nobody had appeared to administer the oath to our present head, however, and we had begun to think that we were to be let alone. I do not believe that the reverend mother had any such hopes. Our foundation was a wealthy one, and our church was well-known to be unusually rich in gold and silver. There was abundance of shrines, reliquaries and boxes, as valuable for their splendid workmanship as for the precious metals of which they were made, and the jewels with which they were incrusted. Then there were missals set with precious stones, beautiful hangings and vestments, and vessels, and candlesticks, and the like. These articles were all displayed upon feast days, and when our great altar was lighted up at the festival of our Patroness, it was a spectacle almost too bright for mortal eyes.

Such a prey was not likely very long to escape the teeth and claws of my Lord Cromwell, and his master. Bishop Gardiner himself was very forward in promoting the king's designs upon the religious houses (for as devout as he afterward professed himself). He was our visitor, as I have said, and when the very shepherd is in league with the wolves, the silly sheep have little chance of escape.

It was on a beautiful morning in May that destruction overtook us. We had just come out of chapel for our recreation, when we heard a thundering knocking at the great gate, and the portress going to open it, found a couple of gentlemen, and our old friend, or enemy, the bishop's chaplain, with letters from my Lord Cromwell and Bishop Gardiner for the prioress and community.

We were all in the garden, huddled together and watching afar off, when the mother assistant called us to come into the ante-room of the choir, where we were wont to put on the long mantles which we wore in church. We were bid to array ourselves as quickly as possible and get ourselves into the usual order of our procession. This being done, and preceded by the cross-bearers, as was the way in our grand processionals, the singers passed into the choir, singing as usual, I being at the organ, which I was accustomed to play for all church services. The youngest sisters came first and the prioress last.

Father Austin stood near the altar, his head bowed down with grief, yet commanding himself like a man. The bishop's chaplain and the two other visitors stood beside him, and the latter were passing their remarks freely enough upon all they saw, and even on the figures and faces of the sisters. Standing upon the chancel steps they could look directly into the choir, which no one in the body of the church could see at all. I must do our ladies the justice to say that they seemed, one and all, totally unconscious of the presence of these strange men. Even Sister Perpetua was awed into decent behavior.

When all were in their places, the chaplain announced his errand. He had come, by the authority of the king and his minister, my Lord Cromwell, to demand the surrender of the charter of that house to his majesty, with all treasures of every sort, and all superstitious relics, whereof my lord was well informed we possessed a great number. All members of the family were to be at liberty to depart whither they would, being furnished, by the king's liberality, with a suit of secular clothing. As to the house and its contents, they were to be at the absolute disposition of the king, and no one was to presume, on pain of felony, to secrete, carry off, or make away with any article whatever, though by the king's special grace and favor toward the bishop, the sisters might take any books or other property of their own, not above the value of three marks. * The visitors had brought down articles of surrender for the prioress to sign, and two of the commissioners would remain to take an inventory of our goods, and see such as were of value packed for removal.

* See many such surrenders in the Camden Miscellany and in Fuller's Church History.

I do not suppose that any one now can estimate the shock of this declaration. I do think, if the earth had quaked and shaken down church and convent in one common ruin, it would not have amazed and horrified us as much. I am sure when the spire was struck by lightning—whereby two of our bells were melted—we were not nearly as astounded. *

I, hidden away in the organ loft, could watch the faces of the sisters. One or two burst into tears, but the greater part were too much stunned to move. The prioress was very pale, but she spoke in her usual even, somewhat deep voice.

* Fuller notes, as remarkable, the number of abbeys and priories which were, at one time or another, burned by lightning. He gives a list of thirteen thus destroyed.

"These are heavy tidings you bring us, gentlemen. How have we been so unfortunate as to fall under his Grace's displeasure?"

The gentlemen looked at each other, and one of them began reciting a long list of the sins and shortcomings of the religious houses, whereby his majesty was moved, by his zeal for true religion, to suppress all houses below a certain value—two hundred pounds a year—I believe. The prioress heard him to the end, and answered in the same calm tone.

"For the misorders and scandals whereof you speak, I can answer for no house but my own. Sure I am, that for the forty years I have lived in these hallowed walls, no such thing has happened here, and as our revenues are nearer to three hundred a year than two, I see not how his Grace's royal will applies to us."

"We will be the judges of that," answered the commissioner, arrogantly. "As to the matter of scandals, we have been better informed by some of your own number. There have been scandals enow, especially of late. Will you dare tell me, woman, that no young men have been entertained in this house—that there has been no junketing and carousing in the very parlor of the prioress herself. I tell you we have sure information, and will you dare to deny it?"

The prioress paused for a little, and let her eyes travel from face to face round the circle. When she came to Sister Perpetua and Sister Regina, she looked them in the face for a full minute. There was no need to inquire further who was the false witness. Their visages spoke for them. (It was much the same with all the religious houses. There was always some traitor in the camp, ready, whether for greed of gain or to curry favor, or because of weariness of their vows, to inform against their brethren.) The lady was about to speak again, when the other commissioner interrupted her. He was the elder of the two, and altogether more decent in his demeanor.

"Under your favor, honored lady, I would counsel you to take time for advisement, and to read the letter sent you by your reverend visitor, which his chaplain will hand you. After that, we will hear your decision."

"It is well spoken, sir," answered the prioress. "Meantime, please you, gentlemen, to withdraw to the house of Father Austin, our priest and confessor, where I will give order for your entertainment."

"Nay, reverend mother, methinks the common fare of your refectory will suit us well enough," returned the younger man. "If all tales be true, we are not the first who have had such entertainment, and methinks we were safer to make you our taster."

The reverend mother made no reply to his impudence, but giving a sign to the sisters, they withdrew as they had entered. When all had passed but herself and the mother assistant, she advanced to the wide grating which separated the choir from the church, and held out her hand, covered with a fold of her robe, for the bishop's letter. The elder man gave it her with a reverence for which I liked him all the better, and said, in a low tone, as the other turned away:

"Be advised, madam. Resistance can do no good, and will bring only heavier calamity on yourself and your flock. Be advised, and follow your visitor's counsel."

"I thank you, sir, for your words, which I see are kindly meant," said the prioress; "but I must have little time to consider the matter. How long can you give me?"

He called back his brother commissioner, and after consultation, in which he seemed to press some point which the other yielded unwillingly, he turned and said: "Till to-morrow at this hour, madam."

"I thank you," said the lady once more—and passed out of the door. I closed my instrument, not without a sob, as I thought I might never touch it again, and followed the reverend mother.

It was now the time for dinner, but the bell had not been rung. The sisters were standing talking together in excited groups, and many an angry and contemptuous glance was cast at the two traitors. The prioress at once restored order, and bade the portress ring the bell for dinner.

"Let us have no misorder—no relaxation of discipline on what may perhaps be our last day in this blessed inclosure," said she. "Slandered we have been and may be, but let us keep our own consciences clear and unstained. That comfort no one can take from us."

It was a feast day, and our cheer was better than common, but nobody felt like eating. The ceremonies of the table went on as usual, however, and the reader's voice never faltered. After dinner came recreation, and then the tongues were let loose again.

"Well, for my part, I care not what becomes of me after this," said Sister Sacristine. "I have lived too long."

"Do not say that, sister," returned Mother Bridget, gently. "We cannot say what gracious purpose may yet be in store for us."

"Don't talk of gracious purposes!" said the Sacristine, angrily. "Here have I been serving the blessed Magdalene all these years, wearing my fingers to the bone cleaning of her shrine with wash leather and hartshorn salts and what not, and this is what I get by it. And to see the holy relics carried off and dispersed after all my care."

The poor old lady burst into tears and wept bitterly, and more than one joined her.

As for me, I stole away to a favorite place of retirement—a little shrine or oratory in the orchard, half hidden by trees and thick, clustering ivy. Here I was used to keep certain books of my own—a Latin Imitation and Psalter, and a prayer book which I had brought from my old home at Peckham Hall. I hoped for a little solitude to collect my thoughts, but I was disappointed.

As I drew near, I heard men's voices in the building, and recognized them for those of the old Scotch gardener and Mr. Lethbridge, the younger commissioner.

"So this is the jaw-bone of St. Lawrence, is it?" said the latter; and peeping through a crack, I saw with horror that he was tossing it up and down in his hand. "It looks more like a pig's jaw to me."

"Maybe," answered Adam. "Ye'll be a better judge of that article than me. It was aye called the jaw of St. Lawrence in my time."

"What of it—suppose it was?" said the other, arrogantly. "What good could it do any one? For my part, I care no more for St. Lawrence's jaw than for Mahomet's."

"I would na speak scornfully of the jaw of Mahomet gin I were talking to a Turk," retorted Adam. "I might argue wi' him, gin I thought it would be to edification, but I would na scorn at him. I would think it ill manners."

For all answer, Mr. Lethbridge tossed the relic from him, and ordered the gardener to show him the rest of the grounds. When they were gone, I entered the chapel, and having gathered my books together, I picked up the jaw of St. Lawrence, which certainly had an odd shape for a man's, wiped the dust from it, and laid it back in its place. Then, a sudden thought striking me, I dug a hole in the earth, at the foot of the great honeysuckle, and buried it; and there it may be now, for aught I know.

Our services went on as usual during the day—the last day, perhaps, they would ever be performed in those walls which had heard prayers and chants for so many hundred years. It was touching to see how punctiliously almost all the sisters performed every duty, even the smallest.

There were exceptions, however. As I said, we had two or three who had no vocation whatever, and they tried to take liberties, and were not ashamed to exchange mocking glances and whispers, even in the hour of meditation. Nobody took any notice of them, however, except to draw away when they came near as if they had the pestilence. I remember Sister Regina took hold of the sleeve of Sister Anne's habit to draw her attention to something, she being a little deaf, whereupon the old lady, having her scissors in her hand, deliberately cut out the place Regina had touched and trampled it under her feet. It was not a very Christian act, perhaps, but we were all glad of it. Sister Regina did have the grace to look abashed for a moment, the more that she had always been rather a favorite with Sister Anne.

That evening, just before bed-time, Sister Sacristine met me in the gallery and drew me aside into the sacristy, and then into a little inner vaulted room where our most valuable relics were stored, when not exposed to the adoration of the faithful. The precious shrines which were used at these times were kept in another place, whereof the key was already in the hands of the commissioners. Shutting the door, and opening a dark lantern which she carried, she whispered in my ear:

"Loveday, you are a brave girl. I remember how you faced the bull that day he got out. Will you help me to save our most precious relic from profanation?"

"If I can!" said I, doubtfully. "But what is it you want to do?"

She glanced round, and then whispered in my ear:

"I want to let out the Virgin's smoke. But the stopper is too stiff for my fingers, and I want you to open it and let the smoke out. Then we can leave the bottle as we found it!"

Now this bottle of smoke from the Blessed Mother's hearth at Bethlehem was, indeed, our most precious relic, and was looked upon with awful reverence. I fully sympathized with Sister Sacristine's desire to save it from profanation, but I was rather scared at the idea of touching it, not knowing exactly what it might do if it got out.

"Do you think it would be safe?" I asked. "You know how when the over-curious priest opened the vial to smell of it, a huge volume of black smoke issued from it and blasted him as by lightning."

"Yes, but that was different. His was a profane motive, and ours is a devout one. Oh, Loveday, do help me. I can't endure to think of the blessed smoke in that wretch's hands, and, besides, who can tell what it might do."

"I wish it would smother him and Father Simon both!" said I, spitefully. "And Perpetua and Regina as well."

"Oh, my child, we must forgive our persecutors, you know, and I do try. But you will help me, won't you, and I will pray for you all my life."

"Yes, I will help you," I said. "What do you wish me to do?"

"That is a good girl. May all the saints and angels have you in their keeping."

As she spoke she took from a box a little bottle of greenish material, covered with bright flowers somewhat raised. It had a stopper and cap of gold, very curiously wrought, with a hasp or clasp. I suppose no young person who has grown up under the present state of things, can guess the profound awe with which I received the little vessel into my hand. We both kissed it reverently, and then with some trouble, I loosed the hasp and took out the stopper, while we both fell on our knees. Our eyes were fixed on the precious bottle to await whatever might happen. But the surprising thing was, that nothing happened at all. The little vessel lay upon its side in my hand as innocent and pretty as a maids fairing, but there was no smoke—not even a smell of burning.

"Alas! Alas!" sobbed Sister Sacristine, "The Holy Mother has already withdrawn from this house and taken her smoke with her! The glory has departed. Alas! Alas for us! Our Holy Mother has been offended and has withdrawn her protection from these walls. I fear my sins have helped to draw this judgment on us. Mea culpa! Mea culpa!"

For myself, I confess I had a different feeling. I could not see what the Blessed Virgin should want with her smoke if she had gone away. Sister Sacristine's face being buried in her robe, I ventured to turn the mouth of the bottle to the light and even to smell of it. The inside was quite white and clean, and had a faint odor of musk. (Years afterward I found this very bottle, minus the gold ornaments, at a pawn shop in London and bought it for a trifle. My son says it is one of the little things they make in China by the thousand and sell for a few pence. It had been in possession of our house for a very long time, and was no doubt brought from the East by some pilgrim.)

"Dear sister, do not cry so," said I, at last. "Perhaps Our Lady has herself taken away this precious relic that it might not be profaned."

"You don't think it is a miracle, do you?" asked the sister, brightening up.

"Perhaps so," I answered.

"Dear Sister Postulant, how clever you are," said the old lady, wiping her eyes; "I should not have thought of that? Oh, if you could only take the veil here, you would be Superior before you were thirty. But, ah me! Nobody will ever put on the blessed veil in this house again."

"Don't cry any more, dear sister," said I; "and do not let us stay any longer in this damp place; you will have the rheumatism again, and besides, the bell will ring in a minute and we ought to be in our cells."

With much ado, I got her away and helped her to bed, for she was very feeble. I could not help wondering what would become of her. She had come from a distant part of the country and had no living relations that she knew of, and she was growing infirm and rather childish.

It was our custom to assemble at six o'clock in the community room, to give the reverend mother an account of the work we had done and the books we had read the day before. When we were all together, the prioress told us the substance of our visitor's letter. It simply amounted to this, that there was no use in resistance, since it would only exasperate the king and his minister. The commissioners had orders to turn us all out of doors without ceremony in such a case; whereas, by giving way at once, we might be allowed to remain in our old home a few days, till we could provide ourselves with some other shelter. (He did not say how or where this provision was to be made.) If there was any sin in the case, which he did not think, he would give a full absolution. The whole might as well have been put into one sentence: "You will have to go, so you may as well go quietly."

"It seems we have no choice and nothing to do," said Mother Joanna. "Nothing to do but to submit to the hand of violence, committing our cause to Him who judgeth righteously. As to those who for their own ends have slandered and belied this house," she added, "let them beware. There was pardon for Peter, who denied his Lord, for Thomas who doubted, and for the rest who forsook him. It was only Judas, who sold him, of whom it was said: 'It were better for that man if he had never been born.'"

The lady said these solemn words in a tone of sorrow and reproach which might have moved a heart of stone, but I think that Perpetua had not so much as that. But Sister Regina, who was much younger and more foolish than wicked—I do think most of the mischief in the world is done by fools—burst into tears, and sobbing as if her heart would break, she fell on her knees at the mother's feet, kissed the floor and entreated for pardon.

"I forgive you, my poor child," said the prioress, sadly; "in my own name, and those of your mothers and sisters, I forgive you; but alas! Your penitence, inestimable as it is to yourself, cannot undo what you have done. My mothers and sisters, is it your will that I act according to the terms of this letter?"

The asking was only a form, for there was clearly nothing else to be done. Accordingly, when we were again assembled in the choir at nine o'clock, the prioress formally surrendered the keys, saying that she did so in obedience to the orders of our visitor, and praying only for a few days' grace, that the sisters might be able to make some provision for themselves.

"Surely," said Doctor Willard, the elder gentleman, "it were hard to refuse so small a boon as that."

"I thank you, sir," said the prioress; "may you also find grace in your time of utmost need. Here, then, are the keys; I put them into your hands. For the rest, I and my poor children commit ourselves and our cause to Heaven, since we have no hope in this world."

There was a burst of sobs and tears from the mothers and sisters at these words. The prioress alone remained calm, though her face was pale as the marble Virgins above her head. Even Mr. Lethbridge was awed into silence for a few minutes by the dignity of her manner.

"One word more I must say," added the prioress; "as for the bruits which you say have come to your ears touching scandals in this house, I pronounce them utterly false, slanderous and wicked. During the twenty years that I have been assistant within these walls, there has been but one case of scandal, and that was simply an elopement, which happened some eight years ago. For the rest, I defy any one but the most hardened liar and slanderer to say aught against the fair fame of these my dear children."

Mr. Lethbridge openly exchanged glances with Sister Perpetua, but Sister Regina kept her eyes steadfastly fixed upon the ground, while her face flamed with blushes.

"Since you have resigned the house, madam, there is no need to enter into that matter," said Dr. Willard, repressing his colleague, who was about to speak. "For myself, I do not believe these tales to be any thing but the outcome of private malice and revenge, and dictated by the meanest motive."

It was now Sister Perpetua's turn to redden.

"You go too far, Dr. Willard," said Mr. Lethbridge. "Remember, sir, that I am joined with you in this commission."

"I am not likely to forget what is due either to you or myself," said Doctor Willard, calmly. "Madam, we will now excuse your attendance upon what must needs be painful to you. You can keep possession of your own apartments and those of the ladies, only they must be searched to see that no treasure is concealed, as has been the case in other places."

He bowed, as if in dismissal, and we left the choir in our order of procession for the last time.

What a day that was. The prioress bade all those who still acknowledged her authority, which were all but three or four, to gather together such little matters as they were allowed to carry away with them, and then to resort to the community room, where they were to occupy themselves in reading and prayer, and such needlework as was necessary. She warned us against concealing any thing of value, as it would only bring us and herself into trouble. Our little packets were soon made up, and we gathered together, a sad and sorrowing family.

Only Sister Perpetua, and one or two like her, openly threw off all allegiance, put on, at the first possible minute, the secular dresses provided, and went roaming all about the place, talking with the comers and goers who were now profaning our sacred inclosure. For, finding the great gates open, which they had always seen locked and barred, the people of the neighboring hamlet, and from the village of Dartford, were ready enough to gratify their curiosity, as perhaps was only natural. Some were kind and feeling; others openly jeered at our misfortunes, and rejoiced at our downfall; and among these last were several mendicants, who had had their living from our daily doles.

In truth, this daily almsgiving at the gates of these religious houses, brought any thing but respectable people about them.

"Yes, give us the broken pieces and the old clothes, while you eat white bread and drink wine, will you?" mumbled one old woman, for whom I had myself made a new flannel petticoat and serge kirtle only a week before. "We shall see who will have the old clothes and the broken bits now."

"You wont, that's certain, and glad I am, you ungrateful old beldam," said a decent looking woman, who was making her way through the crowd with a basket on her arm. "Who do you think will feed you, ungrateful wretches that you are, when the ladies are gone? Will the king, or the great lord or gentleman who gets the place, do ought for such as you, think you? No, indeed; not even broken crusts will you get, much less such an outfit as was given you last week." Then, catching sight of me, for I had come out upon some errand, I forget what, she continued:

"Young lady, may I ask if Sister Elizabeth is still living—she who used to teach in the school?"

"Oh, you mean she who is now the Sacristine?" said I, after a moment's thought, for I had never heard her called by that name more than once or twice. "Yes, she is living, but quite infirm."

"Poor heart, and to be turned out in her old age—but that she shall not be, so long as Hester Lee has a roof over mun's head—that she shan't!" said the good woman. "Could 'ee bring me to speak with her, my lamb?"

"Come with me," said I, rejoicing at her words, for I had been very unhappy about the poor old sister.

I led the way to a little parlor, and the prioress passing at the moment I told her the woman's errand.

"I am only a mariner's wife, keeping a shop for small wares in Dartford, madam," said the woman, in answer to the reverend mother's question, "but I have enough and to spare. I well remember the lady's goodness to me, a poor orphan maid, among people whose very tongue was strange to me, and who never had a kind word to sweeten the bread they grudged to their brother's orphan. Ah, madam, strange bread is bitter enough to those who have to eat it, without salting it with cold looks and harsh constructions."

"Very true, my daughter," said the prioress; and she sighed. Poor lady, she was no doubt thinking how soon she might have to eat that salt and bitter bread herself.

"And so, madam, by your leave, I have come to ask the old lady to spend the rest of her days under my roof, and she shall be as welcome as flowers in May, and so shall you yourself, madam, if you would honor me so far. I have a fine upper chamber, where you can be as secluded as you will, until you can make some arrangement more suited to your quality. Alas, madam, what have I done?"

For our poor mother, who had not been seen to shed a tear in all our troubles, now burst into a passion of weeping such as I hardly ever saw, and all the more startling in one usually so calm.

"You have done nothing but what is good and right," I whispered, mine own eyes overflowing. "The dear mother will be better for this relief."

Sister Regina who, ever since the morning, had followed the prioress round like a little dog which has displeased his master and wishes to make amends, darted away, and in a minute returned with a glass of fair water and a smelling bottle. The prioress took the water and thanked her; whereat Regina burst out blubbering like a great schoolboy, and retired into a corner to sob and sniff at her ease.

"'Were there not ten cleansed, but where are the nine?'" said our mother, recovering herself, and smiling sadly. "'There are not found that returned again to give God praise, save this stranger.' I shall most certainly advise Sister Elizabeth to accept your hospitality. As for myself, I am provided for, since my brother will gladly give me a home, and also a shelter to this young lady till she can hear from her friends. I will call the sister."

Sister Sacristine had shut herself in her cell, after giving up her keys, and the prioress went herself to seek her, followed as before by Sister Regina. When she had departed, Dame Lee drew near to me, and said, in an awe-struck whisper:

"Mistress, does the lady profess the new religion?"

"No—at least I suppose not," I answered, surprised; "why should you think so?"

"Because she repeated those words. They are from the English Bible."

I remembered, all at once, the great Bible which had been sent down for the church, and which had been removed, as the prioress had said, to a place of safety. Was it possible she could have been reading it all this time? But this was no time to discuss so dangerous a subject, and besides, I wanted to talk of something else. There was that in Hester Lee's tone and accent which were strangely familiar—something which took me back to very early days, before I went to Peckham Hall.

"What part of the country did you come from, dame?" I asked.

"Me, my lamb, I be from Devon—up Clovelly way—I be, and so was my father, rest his soul. Ees, I be from Devon."

"And so am I," I answered, feeling somehow as if I had found a friend, "though 'tis many a long year since I saw the place. My father owned Watcombe Farm."

Dame Hester knew the farm, and was delighted to meet a countrywoman. In the midst of our colloquy, the prioress returned, followed by Sister Sacristine in the secular dress which had been provided for each of us, and very funny she looked in it. She carried a bundle in her hand.

"Yes, I will go with you, Hester, since you are so good as to ask me," said she. "You were always a towardly child, and learned to do white seam quicker than any girl I ever saw. Yes, I will go, and as soon as you please; for I can't endure to see the way they are stripping the church."

"We had best make our way home at once," said Dame Hester. "I have an easy, sure-footed donkey at the gate for the lady. And you, madam—"

"I thank you, Dame Hester, but I must stay till all is over," said the prioress. "You are a sailor's wife," (she had told us as much), "and you know that the captain should be the last in the sinking ship."

"And that is true, madam, and what my husband always says. Well, then, we will bid farewell. Come, good mother, we will soon have you in safety."

They went away, and I never saw the sister again. She did not live very long, but passed her days in great peace under the roof of Jonas and Hester Lee, who tended her like an honored parent, though they had plenty of scoffs and fault-findings from Hester's kindred, who had their eyes on the savings of the childless couple.

As I was about to leave the room, the prioress detained me, sending Regina on some errand to the further end of the house. I was glad of that, for I was still very bitter against her, and believed her close attendance on the reverend mother to be that of a spy, in which belief I now think I did her injustice. She was simply one of those weak fools who are ready to be led by any one that will take the trouble—unless it be some one who has the right to govern them, and then they can be obstinate enough.

"Loveday, I have something here which belongs to you," said she. As she spoke, she produced a packet of some size from her pocket, and with a great throb, I recognized my uncle's handwriting on the outside.

"These are letters from your uncle and his family, which have come from time to time for the last six or seven years," said she. "There is no reason now why you should not have them."

"And why did I not have them before?" was the hot question which rose to my lips. The habit of discipline was strong within me, and I did not ask it; but the prioress answered as if I had spoken.

"Why were they not given to you? Because it was not thought best. It was the desire of my Lady Peckham, who was your legal guardian, that you should make this house your home, and be professed here. We saw that every letter you had from your uncle's family disturbed your mind and made you homesick," (that was true enough), "and therefore we thought it best to break off all such intercourse. My child, I see that you are thinking this very hard, but you must remember that any parent would have exercised the same right over a daughter's letters. Were it to do again, I might act differently. I see many things in a different light from what I did when you first came here. Here are your letters. You may learn from them something about the present state of your uncle's family, though I think the last is two years old."

I need not say how eagerly I received the letters, and how I devoured them. They were written at different times, and all contained assurances of undying regard from my uncle and aunt, with complaints of my silence. The latest was from my uncle, and had been written from a town in Holland, whither the family had removed. My uncle seemed to be in a lively vein, for he recalled various incidents of my stay in the family; at the close, were these words:

"Do you remember the odd experiments I once showed you with chemicals, whereby Sambo was so scared? You know there was one in invisible ink, which the good fellow thought was witchcraft."

A sudden notion flashed across me, which made me gather up all my precious papers, and hasten to the kitchen. A great fire was burning in the fireplace, and the room was empty, for dinner had long been over. Quickly, I held the last dated letter to the hot coals, and as I had half expected, I saw lines of brown writing appear between the black. I read as follows:

"I have sure intelligence that within a year or two at furthest, the religious houses in England will be forced to surrender. Should such a thing happen, do you make your way to London, to the house where I used to live. Master John Davis and his wife will care for you, and put you in the way of hearing from or coming to me. My Lady Peckham being now dead, there will be no one to interfere with you."

How welcome were these lines! I had been wondering what would become of me, and here was a home provided, if I could but make shift to reach it, and that I was determined to do if I had to beg my way. I had just come to this resolution when I heard a step approaching, and hastened to hide my treasure in my bosom. I was both angry and alarmed, for the new comer was Mr. Lethbridge, for whom I had conceived a violent aversion. I would have passed from the room, but he barred the way whichever way I turned.

"Not so fast, not so fast, fair mistress!" said he. "Let me be your confessor, and tell me what you are doing here amid the pots and pans, and whether you are not glad in your heart to escape from this cage, and spread your wings?"

I deigned no answer to the question, but possessed myself of the tongs, as if I would arrange the fire.

"What! Will you threaten me with the tongs, like a second St. Dunstan? Nay, then I may fairly meet force with force."

He came forward and put out his hand, as if to lay hold on me, and, blind with fear and anger, I struck at him with the hot tongs. He recoiled from the blow and stumbled against a dresser, on which Sister Rosina, from mere force of habit, I suppose, had set a great earthen pot of soup, which she had prepared beforehand for the morrow's dinner. Down came the pot, and souse went the greasy liquid over my master's fine clothes and into his hair and eyes. It had been off the fire too long, certainly, to scald, but it was hot enough to be very uncomfortable, and another hasty motion sent the dresser itself, with all its trenchers and pipkins, after the soup. Sister Regina was always saying that dresser would come down some day, and certainly, it took a good opportunity of fulfilling its destiny. While its victim was cursing and swearing and roaring for help, I escaped from the nearest door and ran up a winding stair and through rooms and galleries where I had never been before, to the prioress's own room, bursting in upon her in the most unmannerly fashion.

"Loveday, is this you? Where do you come from, and what ails you?" asked the lady in some displeasure. I mustered my breath as well as I could, and told her what had happened, whereat she laughed—almost the only time I ever saw her do so, though her smiles were frequent enough—I also showed her my uncle's letter, not seeing any harm in so doing, as things were at that time.

"Ay, every one foresees the evil save the one whom it most concerns," said she. "Do you know aught of this Master Davis, save what your uncle says?"

"I have often seen him when I lived in London, reverend mother. He and his son were great friends of mine uncle's. He was well-to-do at that time and in a large way of business, and a learned man—or so I have heard mine uncle say."

"And what say you? Do you incline to go to him?"

I told her frankly, that I did, since mine uncle, who was my nearest relation, and therefore my natural guardian, desired me to do so.

"It is well," said the lady. "If I were going to a house of my own, Loveday, I would ask you to go with me, and be as a daughter to me. But my brother hath a large family, and I shall be but a dependent myself. I had made up my mind to keep you for a time at any rate, but perhaps it is as well. Ah, my poor child, we who thought to die in our nest, must now learn the truth of what the Italian poet saith:"

"'How hard he fares
Who goeth up and down another's stairs.'"

"But we must have patience. 'For here we have no continuing city'—well for us if we can add—'but we seek one to come—if, indeed, we look for a city which hath foundations whose builder and maker is God.'"

How I longed to ask her if these words were from the Evangel. But even had I dared to put such a question to her, there was no time, for the portress came in haste to say that a stranger in the parlor desired to speak with the lady, and with Mistress Loveday Corbet, if it might be allowed.

"Fine doings, indeed, if strange men are to come to our house and ask to see a postulant, and that not even on a visiting day," grumbled the poor old woman. "Fine doings, indeed!"

"You forget, my poor sister, that we have no longer a house," said the prioress, sadly. "Did the gentleman give his name?"

"That he did, reverend mother," answered the portress. "No man comes into this house without giving his name while I am portress, though I died the next minute. But this seems a worthy man and civil—a merchant of London, I should say, as mine own honored father was, and he was an iron-monger in East Cheap."

"All this time you are not giving me the gentleman's name," said the prioress, while I was burning with impatience I dared not show.

"I did not say a gentleman, reverend mother, but a merchant, which he says his name is John Davis," answered the portress, coming at last to the matter in hand. My heart sank for a moment, for I thought it might be mine uncle, but it rose again as I considered that Master Davis had probably heard of what had befallen us and had come to seek for me.

So it proved. John Davis looked just as I remembered him, only older. He was a grave and reverend man, with silver hair and beard, a polished demeanor, and more of the scholar in his aspect than one would have expected of a silk mercer. But Master Davis had dealt in far other wares than silks and damask in his day, and had made his profit of them as well.

He greeted the lady with as deep a reverence as though she had still been at the head of one of the best houses in the country—perhaps a little deeper—and proceeded to open his business. He had heard, he said, of the misfortune which had befallen the house, in common with many others, and he had come to find the niece of his old friend and take her to his own home. Then turning his cap in his hand, with some appearance of embarrassment, he adverted to another matter. Heaven had blessed him, he said, with abundant wealth. He should esteem it a favor if the lady would accept a small sum at his hands to help those of the family who were without means or friends.

"You are very kind, sir," said the prioress. "You do not then think that all convents are the sinks of iniquity that they have been represented of late."

"No, madam; I believe they are like all human institutions, both good and bad being mixed up in them."

"But you think, perhaps, they are as well out of the way."

"Madam, you push me to the wall," said the old man, raising his head and regarding her with his clear, steadfast blue eyes. "Since I must declare what I think, I must needs say that what is called the religious life, hath no warrant in Holy Scripture. We find injunctions many, addressed to fathers and mothers, parents and children, husbands and wives, and even to masters and servants, but none to monks and nuns; a strange omission, methinks, if they were expected to form such a great and important part of the church. I will not say that there hath not been good come out of these institutions in times past, but the state of life doth seem to me to be unnatural, and, considering the depravity of the human heart, likely to foster as much evil as good. Nevertheless, I would have more charity and less haste used in the doing away with them, and with all my heart do I pity those poor ladies, who, having no home, are turned out of their only shelter, and would gladly help them so far as it is in my power. I crave pardon, madam, if I offend in my speech. I am but a plain man, and since you would have my mind, I must needs speak plainly."

"You give no offense, sir," answered the lady; and the same odd little half-smile hovered about her lips that I had seen once or twice before. "So you are a reader of the Evangel?"

"Ay, madam, the king's grace now permits persons of my degree to read it openly."

"And is it your will, Loveday, to go with this worthy man?"

"Yes, reverend mother, since mine uncle commands it," said I, marveling at the question; for when Master Davis spoke so plainly, and, above all, when he owned to reading the Bible, I had expected nothing less than a direct prohibition.

"I believe you choose wisely," said the reverend mother. "What means have you of carrying her, Master Davis?"

"I have brought a palfrey for her riding, madam, and I thought if any of the ladies wished to come up to London, they might do so under my escort and that of my servants."

"I will inquire about that. Meantime, my daughter, go and make your preparations."

My few worldly goods were soon gathered together—very few they were—Mistress Davis had been thoughtful enough to send me a riding dress and mask, such as were worn by people of her quality, and I was ready to take leave of the house where I had lived so long, and where I had thought to spend the rest of my days. The dear mothers gave me their blessing and farewells, and in a moment, I was outside the gate. I have never seen the place again.

The king kept it in his own hands for a time, and, I believe, sojourned there more than once. After that, in King Edward's reign, it was the home of Lady Anne of Cleves, the King's divorced wife and adopted sister. Afterward, Queen Mary granted it to some preaching friars, who began a work of restoration which they had no time to finish. Now it belongs to our good queen.

To make an end here of the subject of nunneries—while I think great greed, injustice, falsehood, and cruelty wore exercised in their abolition—I must needs say the land is well rid of them. The secrecy, and the absolute rule, gave opportunity to the exercise of much oppression and cruelty on the part of their rulers, and the victims had no redress. They were made use of, as I have said, by people who wished to get rid of inconvenient relations, and so many persons thus entered, who had no religious sentiment to sustain them, great disorders were likely to prevail (and often did) among companies of young persons with no natural outlet for the passions and affections which God himself hath implanted in our bosoms. Their promiscuous almsgiving did more harm than good, especially with the cloistered orders, who had no means of judging who were worthy and who were mere idle beggars.

Nevertheless, I will always maintain that the work of suppressing them was prompted far more by greed of gain than by any principle of right, and that it was carried on in many cases with great oppression and cruelty, as I have said. However, the king was not, after all, nearly so bad as Cardinal Wolsey, who began the work with the full consent of the pope himself. The king did grant pensions to the older men, and in some cases to the women; which pensions have been paid with tolerable regularity. * (Father Austin receives his, but what he does with it, I cannot say, since he can hardly spend it all in sweets for the children.)

* The last of these pensioners died in the fifth year of James First. See Fuller, for a good account of the matter.

But the cardinal made no provision whatever for those he turned out. Many of the younger nuns married, after a while. (The king changed his mind so often about that matter, that it was hard to know what he would or would not have.) Others took service in families, like Sister Regina, who got a chambermaid's place with my Lady Denny, and, I believe, filled it fairly well for a fool. Some, but I think not many, went wholly to the bad; like Sister Perpetua, who, to be sure, had not far to go.

Our honored mother went to her brother's house, and he losing his wife soon after, she staid to govern his household, and brought up a large family of children who honored her as a mother. Mother Joanna went also to her own home, but she did not live long. Of the rest of the family, I know nothing, save of old Adam, the gardener, who kept his place through all the changes, and died, nearly a hundred years old, in the reign of our present queen.

[CHAPTER VII.]

OLD FRIENDS AND NEW.

SO here I was once more thrown upon the world and going over the road I never thought to retrace again.

It was a beautiful spring day, with flowers abloom and birds singing in every direction. As we paused on the top of a rise of ground and I looked back, I remembered all of a sudden that it was from this very place that I had first caught sight of Dartford priory. Now I was leaving it behind me forever. I turned and looked at it. Nothing was changed outwardly. The commissioners had ordered the place cleared, and no one was to be seen moving save old Adam, who seemed to be going about his work as if nothing had happened. I believe the old man would have tied up his vines and hoed his vegetables to the very last minute, if he had known that the day of doom would come in an hour's time.

For a few minutes, I could not forbear weeping at the thought of leaving those with whom I had lived so long. I had dearly loved most of the elders of the family, though I had never formed any great intimacy with those near my own age and standing. Grievously as I had disliked the idea of going to the house as a child, I had, upon the whole, been happy there. I had no deep religious feelings or principles at that time, and I had never dreamed of doubting what had been taught me. I had a great desire, indeed, to read the Scriptures for myself, but it was only the curiosity which one has to see a famous book that one has heard about. I suppose the feeling that there was a kind of mystery about the matter might have had its effect in increasing that desire. Every one was kind to me. I had as few childish troubles and suffered as few corrections as fall to the lot of most children. I loved music and I loved learning languages, and opportunity had been given me to indulge both these tastes. Yes, upon the whole, I had been happy at Dartford.

"We must not linger long, Mistress Corbet, if we would be at home before night!" said John Davis, gently. "I blame not your regrets, but I trust you have yet much happiness and usefulness before you. I believe you may hope to serve God as well in the world as in yonder walls."

I could not but blush as I remembered that the thought of such service in one place or the other had not so much as crossed my mind.

We put our horses in motion, and all at once my heart gave a great bound of exultation. I was free once more—out in the world, with no walls to confine my footsteps and shut in my view. The very sight of the wide green fields and pastures, seemed to lift a load from my eyes and spirits, of which I had all the time been dimly conscious. I looked with interest at every hall and cottage, at every woman whom I saw gathering of greens for her pot, or nursing her babe at her door, and I would have liked to make one in every group of gossips that I saw collected round a well or at a street corner.

But long before night, my interest gave way to utter weariness, and I could think of nothing but when we should reach home. I had not been on horseback for many years, and a ride of fifteen miles was almost too much for me, strong as I was. We entered London at last, and reached my uncle's old house about sunset.

"Welcome, Mistress Corbet," said Master Davis, as he lifted me from my horse. "Welcome to your old home. Mistress Davis will strive to make it as homelike as the house you have left."

Mistress Davis herself, having heard of our arrival, came forward and met me with a motherly kiss as I entered the hall where I had come, a tired, homesick child, eight years or more before. As I entered the parlor and saw the old furniture in the old accustomed places, a curious feeling of unreality came over me, as though my convent life had been all a dream; and I more than half expected to see mine uncle seated in his own window and my aunt in hers, the one reading in his great book, the other darning of hosiery, or working at the white seam, in which she excelled. But the dream was quickly dispelled by the voice of Mistress Davis:

"Dear heart, and so you have come all the way from Dartford since eleven o'clock. How weary you must be. You shall have your supper directly, and go to your bed, and to-morrow you will be as fresh as a daisy. But you will like to wash before supper. My dear, I have such a poor head; I cannot recall your name!"

"Loveday Corbet, reverend mother—I mean madam," I replied, confused at my mistake.

"Yes, yes, I remember," said Mistress Davis. "Philippa, will you show Mistress Loveday her room; and when you are ready, sweet chick, come down to the dining-room; I dare say you know the way."

"Yes, madam," I answered. "If you will kindly tell me which room I am to have, I will find it without troubling Mrs. Philippa."

"Oh, I am sure it is no trouble. The front room on the third floor—that hung with the apostles, if you remember."

"Oh yes, madam, it is my old room."

"Let me carry your bundle," said she whom Mistress Davis had called Philippa, coming forward and taking it from my hand. We passed up the familiar stair—so familiar, yet so strange—and entered the very room from which I had witnessed Sambo's recovery of the stolen flowers. It was hardly altered at all, save that the floor was strewn with rushes, a practice which my uncle had discarded. The very nosegay of flowers on the mantle might have been the same, only that they were spring, instead of autumn, posies. A pretty gown and petticoat of dark blue, with a linen hood, and other things belonging to a young lady's dress, were neatly laid out on the bed.

"My aunt hath provided you with a complete change of raiment, you see!" said Mrs. Philippa, with a kind of bitterness in her tone which I did not then understand.

"She is very kind, indeed, to think of it," said I, and, indeed, I did feel it to be a motherly and kind act, which made my heart warm toward the good woman.

"Oh, very!" answered Philippa, in the same odd tone. "I will leave you to dress and then, perhaps, you can find your way down by yourself, as you know the house so well."

"Certainly," I answered, feeling a little confused and vexed, as well by something in her manner and the sharp scrutiny of her cold gray eyes.

Not to keep my hostess waiting longer than was needful, I simply slipped off the riding gear which I had put on over my gray novice's gown, made myself as neat as I could at short notice, and went down as I had been bidden, to the dining-room, where I found the family already assembled—there being more children than I could reckon at one glance, all healthy and happy-looking, except Philippa. We took our places at the board, the youngest child present said a simple grace, and we all sat down. The meal was a plain one and plainly served, but all was good and abundant.

"You see all our flock at once, Mrs. Loveday," said Master Davis, "all, that is, but my married son and daughter, who have homes of their own."

"These young ones should have been abed, I suppose," chimed in Mistress Davis, "but they begged to sit up till their father came, and I could not refuse them for once, poor hearts. Folks say I spoil my children sadly," she added, whereat Philippa gave a scornful half-smile; "but they are pretty good children, though I say it that shouldn't!"

"I am sure they do not look spoiled," said I, seeing that I was expected to speak; and, indeed, they did not. A prettier, better ordered family of children I never saw. The supper was good, as I said, though plain, but I was too weary to eat, seeing which, Mistress Davis hastened the meal a little. When all had finished, she blew a little whistle and made a sign to the elder boy, who brought a great book from the side table and laid it before his father, while three or four servants and as many 'prentice lads entered and sat down at the lower end of the room.

"It is my custom, Mrs. Loveday, to read a chapter in the Holy Scriptures to my family night and morning," said John Davis, removing his cap as he spoke, "but if you have any scruples of conscience concerning the same, you have leave to withdraw."

Philippa instantly rose, crossed herself and looked at me as if expecting me to do the same. But as I had no such scruple, and had moreover a great curiosity about the matter, I sat still, whereat she went away, shutting the door with something like a slam.

The chapter Master Davis read was that one from the Old Testament Scriptures concerning the beautiful story of the Shunamite woman and her child. He then turned over and read about the widow's son of Nain, whom our Lord brought again from the dead. The reading finished, the whole family joined in the Paternoster, and Master Davis added a short prayer in English, asking for protection through the hours of darkness. The children and the 'prentices (there were but two, both quite little lads) then kissed his hand and received his blessing, and so all parted for the night. I cannot make any one understand how sweet and affecting was this picture of family life to me who had not seen it for so long.

Mistress Davis herself was so kind as to see me to my room. When there, she closed the door and addressed herself to me in that same pretty, motherly way, yet not without a dash of dignity, which had made me love her at first sight.

"Mrs. Loveday, my dear, I have, as you see, provided you with apparel suitable to your degree, and unless you make it a matter of conscience (with which I will by no means interfere), I should be glad to have you don it to-morrow."

I told her what was quite true, that I had no objection, and that I would have changed my dress at once but for fear of keeping her waiting. I added that the reverend prioress had counseled me to be commanded and guided by her in all things.

"Why, that is well," said Mistress Davis, so evidently pleased by my ready compliance that I fancy she had expected something quite different. "You see, sweet chick, a conventual dress out of convent walls doth draw on remark, which is not pleasant or convenient for a young lady."

"I can see that, madam!" said I. "I will put on the pretty gown you have been so kind as to provide me in the morning. But, madam, is every one now permitted to have the Scripture and read it?"

"Why, no, not every one," she answered. "Only those above a certain degree; but we hope the time may come when it will be free to all. It is a blessed gift, used as it should be, able to make wise unto salvation. Well, good-night, and God bless thee."

She kissed my cheek, as she spoke, and I kissed her hand. Then, quickly undressing and saying my prayers, I lay down, and, despite the novelty of the soft feather bed and fine sheets, smelling of lavender, I was soon asleep. I started several times in the night at some noise in the street, but, on the whole, I slept well, and awoke refreshed, but at first greatly bewildered at the place in which I found myself and the novelty of the street-cries outside which fell on my ear, so long used to hear nothing on waking but the song of the early birds.

I had often dreamed of waking in this very room, and now the reality seemed like a dream. At last I roused myself thoroughly, as I heard the house astir. I must needs confess, that it was with no small pleasure that I hung up my gray flannel robe, and arrayed myself in the clean body-linen, blue gown, and laced-hood and partlet; nor was it without a sensation of gratified vanity, that I looked in the glass, and saw that the image reflected there was a reasonably fair one. Considering that I had not seen my own visage for so many years, I might be excused for lingering before it a little. I was at this time about eighteen, a well-grown, healthy-looking black * maid; with a dark clear skin, which showed every change of color; coal black brows, and dark eyes with long lashes, and very thick black hair, crisped to the roots and always wanting to stray into rebellious little curls about my brow and neck. Walter used say my hair was never meant for a nun's coif and veil. I don't think I was vainer than other maids, but it is natural to young things to wish to look well, and, certainly, I was no exception to the rule.

* A black person then, and long after, only meant one with black hair.

I said my prayers, and put my bed to rights, and then began looking about the room. All was very much as I had left it; so much so that I half expected, on opening the garderobe, to find Katherine's kirtle fallen from its nail, and Avice's hanging primly in its place. A little door, which I did not remember, opened into a light closet, where was a small table, a chair and hassock, and a couple of books. I took up the larger volume, and was both delighted and surprised to find it a copy of the New Testament. I opened into the Gospel of St. John, but had no time to read more than a few words before a knock came to the door of my bedroom. I opened it, and there stood Philippa.

"My aunt has sent me to call you," she began, and then, with a curious change of tone: "So you have left off your gown and veil already. Well, it must be confessed, you have lost no time."

"I have but done as Mistress Davis requested," said I, feeling my cheek flame at the tone of supercilious reproof.

"Oh, you are very obedient, no doubt. I should suppose that you owed as much obedience to your religious vows as to—however, that kind of obedience is out of fashion now-a-days."

"I have never taken any vows, Mrs. Philippa," I answered. "And the reverend mother bade me be guided by Mistress Davis in all things. I suppose she knows what is proper for young maids, as we are, better than we can ourselves."

"Oh, very well; I did not come to quarrel with you, but to call you to breakfast."

She turned round and I followed her, feeling discomposed and uncomfortable. Mistress Davis's motherly kiss and welcome, however, soon restored me.

"Why, this is well," said she, leading me to her husband, who entered the hall followed by a younger man, also in the grave, rich dress of a well-to-do merchant.

Master Davis greeted me with a kindly smile and blessing, and presented me to his son; who, it seemed, had come to take breakfast with his parents. I liked him as well as the other members of the family whom I had seen, and was particularly pleased with his deference to his mother. The older lads had already gone to school, but a little boy and two pretty little girls sat down with us, and I learned, accidentally, that the breakfast-hour had been deferred out of consideration for me, as I was supposed to be tired with my ride. But, indeed, breakfast, which is coming in many families to be as regular a meal as dinner and supper, was little thought of in those days. The children took a piece of bread and a draught of milk in their hands, and their elders were content with a manchet and a cup of small ale, or mead. I hear that people in London now have some trouble in getting good milk, but there was abundance of milk-kine kept in the city boundaries in my time.

When I had drunk my basin of milk and eaten, I know not what dainty cake wherewith Mistress Davis provided me, Master Davis called me into the parlor, saying he wished to have some talk with me.

"So, Mistress Loveday, I dare say you are impatient to hear somewhat of your uncle's family," said he kindly. "I have borrowed an hour or so from business to talk of your affairs. Please you, be seated."

I courtesied, and took the chair he set for me.

"You will naturally wish to hear first of my good friend, your uncle's affairs," said he, placing himself in the great chair where mine uncle used to sit. "I wish, from my heart, I could give you later and better news of him. The last letter I had from him was written, almost two years ago, from Antwerp. In it, after praying me to have a care of yourself and your fortunes, he gave me to wit, that having trusted too far a factor whom he employed, and having lost largely by him, he was about removing to some town in Holland, where he hath had correspondence, and where he hoped to retrieve his fortunes. He was somewhat undecided where to settle, but said he would write me when he had, as he said, pitched his tent once more. Since then, I have not heard from him."

Here was a fine downfall of all the airy castles I had been building ever since I read mine uncle's last letter. I bit my lip, and had much ado not to burst out weeping.

"Be not too much cast down, dear maid," resumed Master Davis, marking my emotion. "I hope all will yet prosper with your uncle, and that you will be able to join him. I have written again by a sure hand to a mutual friend in Antwerp, and, besides, any day may bring a letter from your kinsman. Meantime, rest assured that you are most welcome to a daughter's place in this house. My good wife's heart is large enough to hold a dozen more like you, besides our own brood, and all our grandchildren; and my own, believe me, is not less spacious. Is not that true, dame?" he added, appealing to his wife, who had just entered. "Can not your wings spread wide enough to brood another chick?"

"Yes, indeed; half a dozen, if they will but be peaceable and not peck one another," answered the good mistress, whose smooth brow seemed a little ruffled, I thought. "I am sure if Mistress Corbet does but turn out half as towardly as she seems, it will be a pleasure to have her in the house. But we must take some order for her clothes. Canst sew, sweet heart?"

"Oh, yes, madam; I can both sew and knit," I answered.

"That is more than I can—the knitting, I mean," said Mistress Davis. "My sister, who is a waiting gentlewoman to the Duchess of Suffolk, says her lady knows the art, but I have never even seen it. Then, I dare say, you will not mind making your own linen."

"Oh, no, madam; indeed, I shall like it, only—"

"Well, only what, chick?"

"Only I have none to make," said I, with the outspoken bluntness natural to me, and which I had never unlearned, even in the convent. "I have no money to buy any, either, and it seems hard that you, madam, should provide it for me, when you have such a flock of your own."

"Care not for that, sweet heart," said Master Davis. "Heaven hath, as you say, given us a flock, but it hath also given us abundance wherewith to maintain it."

"And I dare say, you will be able to give me help about the ordering of the household and the children," added his wife, with that quick consideration which distinguished her.

"I should like that," said I. "I might teach the children music, if you would. I can play both upon the lute and the little and great organ, and I can read both French and Latin."

"So much the better for you. 'Learning is light luggage,' my gaffer used to say. The children go to school at present, but I shall find a way to make you useful, never fear. Do you come with me now, and we will see what is most needed."

I followed her to my own room, where I found a piece of fine Hollands and some stuffs for dresses, with a piece of rich sober silk, laid out on my bed.

"You see, chick, you, being a gentlewoman born, may wear silk, and even velvet, which we merchants' wives must be content to forego," said Mistress Davis, smiling.

"But indeed, Mistress Davis, I would rather not wear silk. I would far rather dress as you do," said I, earnestly. "Silk attire is surely not for one like me, who hath nothing she may call her own. Please do not ask me to wear silk."

"Well, well, it shall be as you please. But, dear love, do not let the thought of dependence worry you. Above all, let it not embitter you. Remember, we poor creatures are all dependent on each other, first, and last upon our Heavenly Father, who giveth to all his dear children what He sees best for them in particular. Now let me take your measure, and then, when we have some sewing ready, you shall bring your work down to the parlor, if you will."

Mistress Davis's deft hands soon had some shifts ready for the needle. I had brought my working things from the convent, and I soon found myself in the very low chair in the bow-window, which had been mine so long ago. But alas, my dear aunt was no longer in her old place, which was filled by the much less substantial form of Mistress Davis, while Philippa's somber face and figure was but a poor representative of the beautiful twins, my cousins.

I glanced at Philippa, now and again, as I pursued my work, and answered Mistress Davis's questions about my life in Dartford. She was a tall, well-made girl, and would have been handsome but for her formal manners, and the cold, and what I may call the arrogant expression of her large gray blue eyes, that looked as if she were taking ever one's measure and comparing it with some standard of her own. She was dressed in black, made as nearly as might be in conventual fashion, and wore conspicuously at her side a long rosary with a crucifix attached. Mistress Davis expressed a most kindly interest in our poor sisters, and hoped they had homes wherein to bestow themselves. I told her that I knew some of them had, and mentioned the prioress and Mother Joanna.

"And yet the change will be very great for them," said she. "Poor things, one cannot but pity them."

Philippa raised her head as if to speak, but at that moment Mistress Davis was called out of the room, and she addressed herself to me.

"You seem to take the change easily enough, and even to enjoy it," said she.

"Well, I do," I answered, frankly. "Of course, I was sorry to leave my old friends, especially as they were in so much trouble, but a convent life was never my choice for myself nor mine uncle's for me."

"You had no real vocation, then?"

"No, I think not; and indeed, I hardly know what it means," I answered.

"I had!" said Philippa, proudly. "I have always had a vocation, ever since I was a child, but my father never would consent, or Master Davis either. I have money enough, however, and when I am twenty-two it will be all mine own. Then I can do as I like, and I shall go into a religious house directly."

"From the way things are going there are not like to be many religious houses by that time," said I.

"There will be convents enough abroad if not here," said Philippa. "Besides, things may change here."

"That is true," said I; "but from what I have seen I should think that one might be very happy in this house."

"Happiness is not my object!" answered Philippa. "What I seek is a life of self-denial."

"And so you mean to take your own way the moment it is in your power!" I thought, but I did not say it.

At that moment, Mistress Davis returned to the room, bringing with her a pretty, pleasant-looking lady whom she presented to me as her married daughter, Mistress Margaret Hall, come to spend the day at home. I took a fancy to her directly, and we were soon chatting pleasantly together. She had some lace work in hand with which she had got into difficulty, and I was able to set her right, having served my apprenticeship to that kind of work under Mother Joanna. The convent schools did have that advantage—they taught girls to use their fingers. Mistress Hall looked over with great interest while I picked out and untwisted, showing her where she had gone wrong.

"Many thanks, Mistress Loveday!" said she pleasantly, when I had restored the frame to her. "You have plenty of finger wit, I see."

"More of finger wit than head wit, perhaps!" said Philippa, with that kind of smile which says—"see how superior I am." "I believe they do not often go together."

"I am not sure of that," I answered. "Sister Cicely, our organist, of whom I learned music, was the most beautiful seamstress I ever saw, and people came from far and near to hear her playing."

"Then you play the organ?" said Margaret, eagerly; and, as I assented, she went on—"You must come and try my husband's. He bought it at one of the convents which have been closed lately, and had it set up in our house. You must come and play for us."

"I should be very glad to do so," I answered—

Whereat Philippa said, with emphasis:

"You are very much favored, Mistress Loveday. Cousin Margaret Hall never asked me to play for her."

"I did not know that you played," said Margaret.

"No, and you never tried to find out. Oh, you need not excuse yourself. For my part, I would not have such an instrument in my house—I should expect it to bring a curse upon me."

"It is better in my parlor than broken up for the sake of the lead!" said Margaret, rising. "Mistress Loveday, would you not like to go over the house?"

I arose with alacrity. It was just what I had been longing to do. Margaret did not ask Philippa to go with us, for which I was very glad. We left her to her own meditations, and went first up to the attic from which (the house being much higher than its neighbors) we had a very nice view over the city. I looked at once for the little, old almshouses where I was wont to go with my aunt and cousins, but I could not find them at all.

"Where is the green field where the almshouses used to stand?" said I. "I am sure we used to see it from here."

"There is still a bit of it left—yonder by that old tree!" answered Mistress Hall. "You may also see two or three of the cottages, but no one has been put there for a long time. My husband heard that the whole ground was to be granted to some great man about the court!"

"What a shame!" said I.

Mistress Hall put her finger on her lip.

"Blame not the king—no, not in thy bed-chamber!" said she. "There are more than you that think so, but no one dares speak as things are now, and it behooves us specially to be careful, being always in danger of an attaint of heresy."

"You are of the new religion then?" I ventured to say.

"Nay, we are of the old religion—as old as the Word of God himself," said she smiling sweetly. "My husband, like my father, reads the Holy Scripture in his family every day. I suppose, dear maiden, it is new to you."

I told her I had never seen more of it than I had read in mine uncle's great book as a child, adding that I had been taught to think it was at the peril of salvation that common, unlearned folk meddled with the word of Scripture, which was the reason that it was kept in the Latin.

"The multitudes who followed our Lord on earth and listened to his blessed words, and the thousands who heard the discourses of Saint Peter and the other apostles, were doubtless most of them unlearned men. Yet our Lord and the apostles spoke to them in what was then the vulgar tongue!" said Mistress Hall, gently. "Did they then put these poor souls in peril of their salvation? And for what was the wonderful gift of tongues bestowed upon the apostles, save that the common people where they traveled might hear, each in the tongue wherein he was born, the wonderful works of God?"

"I never thought of that!" said I. "And to tell you truth, Mistress Hall, I never thought much about it."

"But you will think, dear maiden!" said she, with a sweet eagerness. "You will read and think, and ask for aid and light from above to understand."

I had no time to make any promise, for at that moment one of the maids came to find us, with a message from Mistress Davis, that dinner would soon be ready. Mistress Hall thanked her, and asked after her mother.

"It seems to me that I have seen you before," said I, as the maid answered that her mother was well.

Cicely blushed and answered modestly that she remembered me quite well, adding:

"But you were a very young lady then. Do you remember the night that you came with your uncle to Goodman's farm, and the kind gentleman gave Dame Goodman a piece of silver and bade her fill my pitcher?"

"Oh yes; you are little Cicely Higgins," said I. "You went with your mother to live with John Blunt and his wife at the almshouse. What has become of them?"

"They are both dead," answered the maid, quietly. Then making a courtesy, she went away.

"That is a nice girl; I am glad she has so good a home," said I.

"Yes; any one who lives with my step-dame has a good home," answered Mistress Hall. "I would all knew it as well as poor little Cicely. Tell me, Mistress Loveday, do you think my husband guilty of sacrilege because he bought a convent organ to save it from the fire and the melting-pot?"

"Not in the least," I answered. "I only wish he had that one I used to play on at Dartford."

"Sometimes I wish Philippa could have her way and go into a convent," said Mistress Hall. "Perhaps she would be more content."

"I think it would be an excellent thing," I answered. "A month or two under Mother Joanna and a few times of bread and water, and being set to scour the flags on her hands and knees, would teach her to keep her tongue in better order."

"After all, that would be but an outward reformation," said Mistress Hall, thoughtfully. "It skills not keeping silence when the heart is full of anger and uncharitableness."

"Under your favor, I think it skills a good deal," I could not help saying. "At least, one does not vex others, and besides, in mine own case, when I am angry, I find the more I say, the angrier I grow."

"Perhaps you are right so far as that goes," answered Margaret; "but I pray you have patience with poor Philippa. It is hard for her to have her will so constantly crossed."

"She would have it crossed with a good crab-tree twig an she were a pupil of our house in Dartford," said I, and there the matter ended for the present.

When we went down to dinner, we found the party increased by Master Hall, Margaret's husband, a tall, stout man, big enough to put his delicate little wife in his pocket, and with a face beaming with good-nature, which his manner did not belie.

The elder children took their dinner at the schools, which were at some distance, but the little ones came to the table and it was clear by their smiles and looks that their big brother-in-law was a welcome guest. I was especially pleased by the respectful affection which both Master and Mistress Hall showed to their step-dame; but, indeed, it would be a hard heart that did not love Mistress Davis.

Of course, I did not speak before my elders at table, but I listened with all my ears. I found out that Master Hall was a bookseller in St. Paul's Churchyard, and had a license to print and sell Bibles. I gathered that he was not as rich as his father-in-law, and indeed Mistress Hall's dress was plain compared to that of her step-mother, or even mine own, though it was most becomingly fancied and as neat and fresh as a daisy. The talk was most interesting to me, running as it did on the sale and use of books, especially Bibles.

"The demand increases more and more," said Master Hall. "We cannot work our presses fast enough to supply it. But I bear some new restriction is to be put upon the sale and use of the books."

"I am sorry for that," said his wife. "I would fain see the time when every plowman and shepherd might have a Bible of his own."

"That time will surely come—or so I think," remarked her father, "though perhaps not in our day. But these young ones may live to see it."

"I fear, indeed, it will not be in our day," said Master Hall. "There are those about His Majesty that would willingly close, if not burn, every English Bible in the land."

"But not the Archbishop of Canterbury," said Master Davis.

"No; His Grace would, like my wife, put it into the hands of all, gentle or simple."

The talk then drifted away to other matters, and when we rose from table, Master Davis proposed we should seek the summer-house in the garden.

"Do so, and I will send you wine and sweetmeats," said Mistress Davis. "Then you can talk of your business matters, and we women will sit under the great apple tree, sew our seams, and talk of affairs level with our comprehension."

Whereat the men laughed, though I did not see the joke. Mistress Davis asked me to help her in the ordering of the banquet, * and I was glad to do so. (I never do feel thoroughly at home in any house till I get into the pantry and kitchen.) Margaret was busy with the little girls, and I saw them showing her their work, and the clothes they had been making for their dolls.

* A banquet was what we should now call a dessert of fruits and sweetmeats piled upon wooden trays and trimmed with flowers. It was often set before callers.

"Yes, Joan and Nelly are quite happy now they can have Sister Margaret all to themselves," said Dame Davis.

"You would never guess for as simple as she sits there, that Margaret can read the New Testament in the Greek tongue, wherein it was written, and correct the press for her husband's edition of Plato his Dialogues. Now, would you?"

"I think I could believe any thing that was good of Mistress Hall," I answered warmly.

"And you may well and safely do so," said her step-mother. "Yes, that is very pretty," as I handed her a dish of fruit I had arranged. "Believe me, you cannot have a better or safer friend than Margaret. With all her learning, she is simple as a child and defers to me as though I were her own mother. There, I think that will do nicely. And now we will take our own work and sit down under the tree, and you will give us the pleasure of hearing you sing, will you not? I see you have brought your lute with you."

I was only too glad to do aught which could please my kind hostess. I do not know when I ever spent a pleasanter afternoon than that. I sang all the songs I knew—which were not many—and then Margaret told us some tales she had read, and by degrees, I know not how, she gently led us to serious talk upon religion and kindred topics.

"Oh, how I do wish you knew our dear reverend mother, Mistress Hall!" I could not help saying at last; whereat she smiled and said:

"Why, do you think we should agree?"

"Yes, indeed, you would," I answered. "You have made me think of her so many times this afternoon."

At this Philippa, who had sat by stiff and silent, tossed up her chin and said:

"She must be a strange lady prioress if she is like Margaret."

"How many lady prioresses did you ever know?" asked Mistress Davis.

"Philippa would say I am not like her notion of what a lady prioress should be, I suppose!" said Margaret. "But tell us of this good friend of yours, Mistress Loveday, if you will. I have always been curious about convent life."

"I don't know where to begin," said I.

"Oh, begin at the beginning and tell us how you spent your day. What was the first thing in the morning?"

So I began and told—as we say in the west country—for an hour. The elder children were at home by this time, and they also gathered round to hear. When I had finished—

"You seem to have led quiet, peaceful lives enow," observed Margaret; "but I should think such an unvarying life would have been rather wearisome, and that a person leading it on for years would be almost childish. Did you never have any study?"

"I used to do my Latin lessons with poor Sister Denys, and afterward with Father Austin," said I; "but we never read any thing but the Imitation and some lives of saints. I began Cæsar's Commentaries when I studied with Father Austin, but I never got on very far."

"You shall finish it with me if you will," said Margaret. "And we will also have some poetry. Latin is a noble tongue."

"Yes, a tongue more fit for the Scriptures and the church service than common English!" said Philippa.

"But Latin was also the vulgar tongue of the Romans, wasn't it, Sister Margaret?" asked one of the boys. "That is the reason the Latin Bible is called the Vulgate, so our master said. He said St. Jerome put it in Latin that every one might read it."

"Yes, that is very likely," answered Philippa, contemptuously. "No doubt he knows all about it. Latin is the sacred language of the church, not like that profane Greek and Hebrew which was used only by heathen and by wicked Jews."

"But the Scripture was written in Greek and Hebrew in the first place; was it not, sister?" asked Amyas, eagerly. "I am sure the master said so, and I suppose he is right. Do you think you know more than our head-master, Cousin Philippa?"

"Gently, gently, little brother!" said Margaret. "Your master would also tell you that one may be right in a wrong way. 'Do you think you know more than so-and-so,' is not very good logic, neither is it very good manners, especially when addressed to one older than yourself."

At this, the lad blushed and hung down his head, but presently raised it and said frankly, "I beg your pardon, Cousin Philippa. But was it not so, sister?"

"Yes, you are right, so far. The Old Testament was written in Hebrew, as most, if not all, of the New Testament was in the Greek tongue. Scholars are now beginning to give great attention to the Hebrew."

"Yes, my sister wrote me that His Grace of Suffolk gives some chaplaincy or the like to a young man—a secular priest—who hath come up from the west country expressly to study the Hebrew," said Mistress Davis.

"I dare say that might be the same young priest who was in our shop yesterday," observed Margaret. "He was a fair Grecian for one of his years, and was asking for some one with whom to learn Hebrew."

"I wish I might learn Greek!" said Amyas.

"All in good time!" returned his mother. "And you, Hal?"

"Not I!" answered Hal, the younger boy. "I would rather be a sailor, and sail away to the Indies, like Columbus, than to be poring over little crooked letters, all dots and spots, like those you showed us the other day, sister."

"Why that may be in good time, too," said Margaret. "Who knows what new lands you may discover?"

"We shall all discover rheums and quacks, * if we sit here much longer," said Mistress Davis. "Do you not perceive how the east wind hath come up? Let us go into the house."

* "Colds in the head" as we call them, were rather new at that time, and were called quacks, hence the term of quack doctors. Old fashioned folks laid them to the introduction of chimneys.

We had several guests to supper. Young Master Davis and his wife, a pretty, lively little body; two or three grave merchants, and an elderly priest, with one of the finest faces I ever saw—full of sweetness and gravity. I was presented to him, and learned that his name was Hooper. The talk at table was cheerful and pleasant, at times falling into a serious vein, and again full of jest and humor.

When the meal was done, the great Bible was again produced, but this time Master Davis handed it to Dr. Hooper. He chose out the twenty-third Psalm, and made an exposition thereon, so sweet and tender, yet vigorous withal, as I think nothing could be better, unless it were the very Word itself. I remember, he specially insisted on that little word my.

"That is the way throughout Scripture," said he. "And so it must ever be with those who are called into the kingdom. It is and must be my Shepherd, my King, our Father, our Saviour. He may be what he is to all the rest of the world, but till I can say He is mine, I am nothing the better."

After he had finished speaking, he prayed—not in any form that I had ever heard, but in his own words, and such a prayer I never heard. It was as though his very eyes saw the one to whom he spoke with the freedom of a loving and dutiful child. Then we all repeated the Paternoster in English, and our guests went away, the ladies giving me many kind and pressing invitations to visit them.

As I went to my room I met Philippa, who asked me if I had a book of Hours, such us they used in the convent. I told her I had, whereat she asked me to lend it to her—adding, with her usual bitterness:

"I suppose you will not care for it, now that you have taken up with the new lights."

"I have not taken up with any new lights that I know of," I answered. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, it is very easy to see. You are quite carried away with Mistress Hall's sweet ways and flatteries, and she will make you as great a heretic as herself. You must needs stay to hear that old apostate hold forth, to-night. Oh, yes; it is easy to see which way the wind blows, Mistress Loveday. But there is no use in saying a word in this house, when even that malapert Amyas is put up to affront me, and Mistress Davis, my aunt, finds fault if I do but put a stitch awry in my mending. All I can do is to wait with what patience I can, till I can go to the convent. There I shall find peace."

"I do not believe you will find it there, unless you take it thither with you," said I. "And I can tell you more than that, Philippa. If you had answered the reverend mother, or even one of the elder sisters, as you did your aunt and Mistress Hall two or three times to-day, you would have been made to kneel and kiss the ground, if, indeed, you had not tasted the discipline of the rod. I saw Sister Blandina made to clean the wash-house floor on her hands and knees because she gave mother assistant a pert answer about some dusting she was ordered to do. How would you like that? You found fault with your meat to-day at table, and your aunt said nothing, only helped you to another bit. If you had done that as a novice, you would have had no more that day, except, perhaps, the leavings on the sisters' plates."

Philippa looked rather blank. "But I am going into a Carthusian house," said she.

I could not forbear laughing.

"Worse and worse. There you will get no meat at all, and only fish on feast days. You will have no linen to mend, because you will have none to wear, and so far from speaking back as you did to Mistress Davis, you will not be permitted to speak at all, save in answer to a question from your superiors."

"How do you know?"

"I heard all about it from one of our sisters, a very nice woman who came to our house when her own was put down. She said she never spoke during her novitiate, unless she were spoken to."

Philippa pouted and patted her foot on the floor.

"I believe you are only trying to scare me," said she.

"You may ask any one who knows," I answered. "Sister Dominica did not know what to make of our easy ways at first, and yet our discipline was not lax by any means."

"Children, what are you doing?" asked Mistress Davis, coming up stairs. "'Tis time you wore abed, and asleep."

"There it goes," muttered Philippa. "Always interfering."

"Philippa came to borrow a book," said I.

"Oh, very well. There is no harm done. Good-night."

"Here is the book," said I, producing it; "only please be careful—" For she took it in a very heedless way by one cover. "It is very dear to me, because our mother gave it me a present from her own hand, and there are some of her paintings in it."

Philippa instantly laid the volume on the table. "I will not take it if you are so dreadfully afraid of it," said she. "I did not guess I was asking such a favor. But that is always the way. One would think that I did nothing else but spoil things. I don't want the book if you are afraid of my spoiling it by only looking at it."

I suppose she thought I was going to urge it upon her, but she was mistaken. My own temper was up by that time, and I quietly turned from her, took the book and laid it away, and bidding her a short good-night, I shut the door.

I sat a few minutes by the open casement to cool my face and also my spirit, and then I said my prayers and went to bed. It was all saying prayers at that time. The words never went deeper than my lips, or at most I thought of them as a sort of charm, the repeating whereof might propitiate some unknown power and save us from some unknown danger. I don't say this is the case with all Roman Catholics by any means, but I know it is with a great many. They gabble over their rosary with no more devotion than a village child goes over the criss-cross row *, or the pence table and from much the same motive, because they expect to be beaten if they do not know their lesson.

*The criss-cross row is the alphabet, always preceded in the old primers and horn books by a cross. Few people who use the word are aware of its origin.

[CHAPTER VIII.]

HER GRACE'S GENTLEWOMAN.

I STAID with Master Davis two months or more, always hoping to hear from my uncle and always disappointed.

Every one was kind to me. Master and Mistress Davis treated me like a daughter in every respect, and I strove to behave like a dutiful child to them. Mistress Davis found me plenty to do, knowing, dear soul that she ever was, that to make me useful was the way to make me feel at home. I have learned a good many precious recipes for distilling and preserving, and I liked nothing better than putting them in practice.

Then Mistress Andrew Davis fell in love with my playing, and must needs have me give her lessons on the clarichord. She had a fair talent for music, and a sweet, bird-like voice, and I shall never forget her pretty, child-like joy when she was able to surprise her grave husband with a song and a lesson on the instrument he had given her. I pursued my Latin and French, and persuaded Mistress Davis to let me begin to teach the little Helen to read. She proved an apt scholar, and we had pleasant times over our books.

It was a wonderful new world that opened to me during those two months. As I said, I never in my life before had any deep convictions of religion. I had gone through the usual routine in the convent just as I worked my lace and sewed my white seam, but that was all. I had a great dread of death, and when any thing brought it home to me, I would redouble my observances and try to feel as I supposed really religious people felt. But it was all outside of me, so to speak. I believed in God, of course, but it was as a stern judge I thought of him—not by any means as a tender Father. The blessed Virgin was, indeed, kind and gentle, and if I coaxed her enough, she would perhaps command her son to be good to me at that dreadful day of doom.

But ever and always in the background of my mind—that is, after I began to think at all—was that fearful specter of Purgatory, the dread ordeal which must be passed before I could hope for the smallest taste of the bliss of Paradise. I do not mean to say that this was the case with all of our number. Some sweet souls there were who sucked the honey in spite of the thorn, and albeit sorely cumbered and distressed by the barriers which the pride and folly of men had piled in their way, did find access to the very Mercy Seat. Some found a real satisfaction in piling up prayer upon prayer; observance upon observance, thinking they were thereby heaping up merit not only for themselves but their friends. Others, and they were the most, were content to perform such tasks as they could not escape, in as easy a manner as possible, trusting to their religious profession and the offices of their patron saint to help them out at the last.

I had all my life been curious about books, ever since a chit of five years old, I had tumbled off a joint-stool whereon I had climbed to look at the great volume of the Morte d'Arthur which lay in the window-seat in the hall. I got a sound switching across my fingers for meddling, but neither the switching nor the tumble cured me of my hunger for books. This hunger had very little to feed it at Dartford, but it never died out, and I used to read over and over the few volumes we had till I knew them by heart.

It was not to be supposed that with such a disposition I would let the New Testament lie very long on my table without looking into it. I chanced to begin at the first chapter of the Acts of the Apostles—that wonderful book, which always seems to me to have the rushing, mighty wind of the Pentecost blowing through it from beginning to end. It was a Sunday afternoon, I remember, and the streets were full of people waiting to see the King pass by going to see some great lord. I was not well, yet not so ill but I was sitting up by my window to watch the show. To while away the time, I took up the book, and I soon became so lost in it that the whole pageant passed by without my seeing it at all. I was still deep in its pages when Mistress Davis came to see how I fared, and so fully was I absorbed in the story that when she asked me where I had been, I answered her—

"At Jerusalem, madam!"

Whereat she laughed, and answered that "it was a good place to be of a Sunday," adding more seriously: "But I see how it is, and right glad am I to see you so well employed. Only remember this, chick: the Scripture is not made to be read for diversion, like a Canterbury tale, or even like any other good book. 'Tis the Lord's own word sent down for the comfort of us poor sinners, and to guide us to that Home which He hath prepared for them that love Him; and as such, we must study it with reverence and ask for the enlightenment of the Spirit to be shed on its pages."

This was a new idea to me, and I closed the volume for that time with a strange bewilderment of ideas. I could not sleep for thinking of it, and the more I thought, the more bewildered I became. Here was a history of the first age of the church under the apostles themselves, and yet not a word said about the worship of the Holy Mother, the adoration of saints, the sacrifice of the mass, and many other things which I had been led to consider essential to salvation.

"But perhaps they are in the Epistles and Gospels," I thought, "only it is very strange that no more should be said about the Holy Mother after the first chapter, and that then she should only be spoken of in the same way as the other women."

But when I came to read the Gospels it was surprise piled upon surprise. At first it was sheer enjoyment. How lovely were those narratives into which I threw myself with an earnestness which made me forget every thing else for the time being. How real to me were the gatherings to hear the word, the feeding of the multitudes, the sower who went forth to sow, the laborers waiting to be hired and grumbling over their pay, not because they had not enough, but because some one else had as much.

But by degrees other thoughts occupied my mind and heart. I began to compare myself with the full requirements of God's holy law. I stood for the first time face to face with that awful spirit whom men call Conviction of Sin. I was shown that I was condemned under the law, and unless some way of escape were provided, there was nothing before me but destruction—nay, that I was condemned already.

My first thought was to reform myself; but it seemed to me that the more I tried the worse I grew. I am sure I never in all my life gave way so far to temper and fretfulness (always my besetting sins) as at that time. Looking back at those days I can not but wonder at the wise and tender patience of Master and Mistress Davis toward me. As for Philippa, I don't think I am uncharitable when I say that she openly exulted over every outburst. But I don't mean to speak of her more than I can help it. She was, indeed, one of those thorns in the side which seem to have no other use than to try the patience of those who are affected by them, and which only rankle the more the more they are plucked at.

Thus was I shut up under the law, and that which was ordained to life I found to be unto death. It was Margaret Hall who led me out of this prison into the light and life of heaven. She had me to stay with her under pretext of having my help in correcting the press, which I had learned to do with tolerable dexterity. She was one of those blessed saints whose very presence is comfort though they do not speak. By degrees she won from me the secret of my trouble, and then taking my hand, as it were, she led me to the fountain opened for sin, and showed me that spring of living water which has never failed me since, though, woe is me, I have many a time choked its overflow, and turned from it to those broken cisterns that can hold no water.

Oh, what a load she took from my mind. I was, as I suppose a man might be who had worn fetters ever since he could remember, and though dimly conscious of them, did not fully know their weight and hinderance till they were struck off. It was as a new creature that I came back to Master Davis's friendly roof.

But those were trying times—in some respects more trying even than the more bloody days that came under Queen Mary. Then, at least, one knew what to expect. The king was growing more and more infirm and capricious all the time, and worked changes in church and state till it took a good head to know what was heresy and treason and what was not.

Already my Lord Cromwell had been filled with the fruit of his own devices, and now, within six short months after he had been created Earl of Essex (that title which hath proved almost as unlucky to its possessor as the famous horse Sejanus), he lay in the Tower, attainted of treason, and waiting for the very block and as to which he himself had sent so many. His real offense lay in purveying to the king a wife who did not please him—the Lady Anne of Cleves, already divorced and living in her own house, treated by the king as his sister, happy in her endless tapestry work and in munching the suckets and comfits her Flemish ladies-in-waiting purveyed for her. She was not one to take any thing very much to heart which did not interfere with her bodily comfort. The king had already turned his dangerous fancy toward the ill-fated Katherine Howard, but I don't believe the Lady Anne felt one pang of jealousy thereat. She was, with all reverence, like a gentle, fat cow, perfectly content so long as she had food and drink, and the flies were not too troublesome.

But it was not the alterations in state matters and the rise and fall of one great man or another which troubled our peace. It was the dreadful uncertainty in matters of religion.

Just now, the bloody statute of the Six Articles was law, but it was enforced rigidly or not, as the king's humor was, or the influence of Archbishop Cranmer or of Bonner and Gardiner came uppermost. These two last were the moving and ruling spirits in all persecutions at this time, as they were afterward in the more bloody days of Queen Mary. They had consented to the suppression of the convents, and were even most forward in the matter, being willing, I suppose, to swim with the current so far if but they might have their way as to the reading of the Scriptures and some other matters.

They were wise enough to know that all was naught with their cause if the Bible came to be generally read; but they were not far-seeing enough to understand that the same Bible, having once been given to the people, they could no more take it back than they could bring back again the day that is past. They could not imprison or burn every one who read it, and who thought out conclusions for himself, else must they have put the whole city of London under sentence of death, as King Philip the Second of Spain did to the Netherlands. But they picked up one here and another there, and nobody felt any security, or knew but some spy was observing his movements in order to betray him.

One week the king hanged six monks, with their prior at their head, for defending a monastic life; the next, he threatened with a like fate any monk or nun who, having taken the vows of that life, should presume to marry. As his infirmities increased, his temper grew more uncertain, till at last any man seemed to take his life in his hand who had to do with the king.

Then there were great disorders every where, some rising out of religion, others from the excessive taxation which pressed heavily upon all classes. Discontent was smouldering in all quarters, and now and then broke out into open flame, as in the two Pilgrimages of Grace, and other insurrections. It is not to be denied that the Protestants, as they began to be called, were also guilty of indecencies and extravagance. If you dam up a rapid stream, though never so clear, and your dam be swept away, the first overflow will be turbid and violent, and likely enow to do mischief.

Moreover, if the people enacted ridiculous plays, and sang ribald songs in the churches, they had seen these very same things allowed, nay, encouraged by the church, in the spectacles of the Boy Bishop and the Pope of Fools—those strange and extravagant parodies of the most sacred offices of the church.

Yes, it was indeed a troublesome time, and every man who, despite the commands of the king and his ministers, continued to read the Holy Scripture, and to frame his belief and life thereby, took that life in his hand; yet many households did it, and lived happy in the midst of disaster, and peaceful on the very field where the battle was raging.

Such a household was ours. One there was, indeed, who would not enter in herself, and who would fain have hindered those who would do so. I confess I used to be afraid of Philippa at times, not that in her sober senses she would have been so base as to put the brand with her own hands to the thatch which sheltered her, but in her fits of temper there was no saying what she might do. Besides, she was one of those unhappy people to whom it seems absolutely necessary to hate something. In those days it was the Protestants. Now, she thinks I am greatly to blame in harboring poor, harmless old Father Austin; looks upon the book of Common Prayer as a remnant of popery, and upon bishops as at best very doubtful characters. She hates all Romanists and Prelatists, as she calls them, in just the same spirit that she used to hate the Scripture-readers—because they do not agree with her.

But at that time she contented herself with hating, and did no covert act, save by keeping away from the Scripture-readings—for which no one blamed her, as she made it matter of conscience, and with bitter gibes and taunts whenever the subject was introduced, and, above all, if the talk turned upon personal religion and inward experience. But as she had taken to solitude and keeping of her hours, and the like, so she was out of the way a good deal. Meantime, our household went on its way, in the midst of the commotion, like a stanch ship in a troubled sea. There was anxiety, indeed, which became sharp fear and agonized suspense, when the master of the family did not come home at the accustomed hours; but as yet, this was the worst which had befallen us.

Master Hall no more printed Bibles openly, but I knew well that they were both made and sold in secret. However, he multiplied copies of the vulgate, and of Erasmus's Paraphrase of the New Testament, so that every one who could make shift to read the very easy Latin could have one. Afterward, the universal reading even of the vulgate came to be forbidden, but it was not so at that time. People grew eager to have their children taught to read, and all the day-schools were full. Greek, too, was more and more studied, and many ladies, especially about the Court, were good Grecians. I had a great fancy to learn it myself, and made, with Margaret Hall's help, a good beginning; which, however, never came to be much more.

I was all this time growing very uneasy at my state of dependence. It was true, as Master Davis had told me at first, that God had blessed him with abundant means, but then he had a great many uses for those means. The old mother of his first wife was still living, and as she persisted in keeping up her own house, and had little or nothing whereon to do it, somebody had to do it for her. I had been in the house some weeks, and had visited her several times, before I found out that she was wholly dependent upon her son-in-law's bounty. She was only one of many pensioners. Besides, I fancy a good deal of the profit of the silk money wont in another way.

There was then in England a sort of secret society called the Christian Brothers. This society was composed of well-to-do merchants and tradesmen, for the most part, though it numbered both priests and gentlemen among its members. It had its correspondents and branches all over the country, and its object was to scatter far and wide copies of the sacred Word. As the merchant journeyed with his string of packhorses, laden with cloth, or silk, or hangings, or whatever might be his commodity, there was cunningly hidden under the bales a case or two of Bibles, Testaments, and such portions thereof as might be more easily concealed.

When he came to a town, he had usually knowledge beforehand who was like to be well-affected to the faith, or he inquired, like the disciples of old, who therein was worthy, and there he took up his abode, disposing of his merchandise, and giving of his books as he found occasion.

The truth was, that ever since the times of Master Wickliffe and the Lollards, there were those scattered about both this kingdom and Scotland, who had kept the faith and handed it down from father to son, together with some written copies of Master Wickliffe's Bible. But these copies, being gradually outworn, and becoming more and more hard to understand, from the change of language in all those years, it may be guessed how eagerly and joyfully these poor, faithful ones would welcome the Word of Life fairly imprinted, and in such a shape as could be easily hid away, if need were, or carried about when there was no danger.

I have heard old folk, who remembered far back, say that the Lollards, as men called them, were in the habit of putting certain marks and signs upon their houses which were known to no one else, and which served to guide those of them who traveled to the homes of their friends. I vouch not for the story, but 'tis like enow to be true.

Master Davis and his sons were members of this society, and I now learned that mine uncle had been a great promoter of it. Of course such service was not only perilous, but it cost a great deal in money, and brought no return as the riches of this world. I could not but notice how plain was Mistress Davis's own dress and that of her children, and how both she and Margaret did forego many of the luxuries and ornaments indulged in by others of their station. They could not carry their practice in this respect too far, however, since this very simplicity in attire and living might throw suspicion upon them.

Mistress Davis was kind enough to say that the help I gave her about the house, and the care of the little ones, did more than offset the expense she was at for me; but I knew, in truth, that help was very little, though the dear soul took pains to make many occasions for my services that I might not feel myself a burden.

I was young and strong. I was able to work, and had been blest with a good education, and it did not seem right that these good friends, on whom I had no claim, should be burdened with my maintenance. I began to cast about for some business whereby I could earn my bread, and had almost made up my mind to set up a little school, when fate, or rather Providence, (to speak like a Christian instead of a heathen), cast in my way the very thing for which I was best suited.

I have mentioned before that Mistress Davis had an elder sister who held an important place in the household of Katherine, Duchess of Suffolk. This lady, the daughter and heir of Lord Willowby by a beautiful Spanish lady, whilom maid of honor to the unfortunate Queen Katherine, had been left in ward to the Duke of Suffolk, her father's best friend. She was bred up under his care, and when she came to woman's estate, he married her.

Mistress Isabel Curtis—that was the name of Mistress Davis's sister—had been about the young lady since her infancy, and, as was natural, she still continued in her service and affection, and had a great deal to do in the management of that great household. She had been out of town with her mistress at the duke's new manor of Hereham, given him by the king in exchange for the suppressed priory of Leiston; but the family were now at their house in London, and on the first occasion possible, Mistress Curtis had come to visit her sister, between whom and herself there subsisted a devoted affection not often seen—more's the pity—in that relation.

I had just come home from Master Hall's, where I had been helping Margaret correct the sheets of Erasmus his Paraphrase. (I was not allowed to help in the work done by the secret press, lest I should be brought into trouble thereby.) I had also been giving a lesson on the lute to Mistress Alice, Andrew's wife, and I was feeling very elate because her mother, a stately dame, had rewarded me with a broad Spanish gold piece for the pains I had taken in teaching Mistress Alice some old ditty which the lady had liked in her youth. I heard below that there was a guest in the parlor, and not liking to intrude unasked, I was passing to my room, when Mistress Davis called me in and presented me to her sister. I made my courtesy, and fell in love with her then and there, even as I had done with Mistress Davis.

Mistress Curtis would have made two of her little sister. She was tall and inclining to be stout, but not unbecomingly so. Her features, though large, were regular, her mouth somewhat thin, her chin beautifully formed. But it was her eyes that gave the chief beauty to her face. I hardly ever heard any two people agree about their color. They were, in fact, gray, but the pupils were so large and had such a trick of dilating that they looked black. Like all the gray eyes I have ever seen, they had great powers of expression, and a wonderful keenness and brilliancy, which seemed to look one through and through. Associating, as she had always done with great people, and having such a responsible charge, her manner had in it something of command, yet not mingled with aught haughty or supercilious. I never saw the like of Mistress Curtis before, and I am quite sure I never shall again.

She received me very graciously, and, Mistress Davis having invited me to do so, I fetched my work and took a stool near the window. I was at that time bestowing all my skill on the embroidery of a set of kerchiefs and mufflers for Mistress Davis—and I may say, without vanity, that I was not ashamed to show my white seam and sprigs with any body.

Mistress Curtis looked at and commended my work, and then pursued her conversation with her sister.

"And so Mrs. Anne is married!" said Mistress Davis. "I trust she hath done well."

"Why yes, I think so!" answered Mistress Curtis. "The match is, perhaps, somewhat below her degree, since Master Agnew is but a yeoman born, but then he hath a fair estate and is himself a man of good conditions. Mrs. Anne was ever one who loved housewifery and a country life, and she hath an easy, patient temper. Yes, I think she may be very happy."

"And who hath filled her place?"

"Nobody as yet. The Duke will have none but gentlewomen about his wife, at least in her chamber, and her Grace would like some young lady who can read aloud in Latin and English, and hath skill with the lute and voice. She loves music above any one I ever saw, though she does not sing."

I could not help looking eagerly up at this. Mistress Davis saw it, and smiled.

"Here is Loveday thinking, 'Now that is just the place for me,'" said she. "Were you not, chick?"

Loveday's history

LOVEDAY'S HISTORY