arnell had thrown
it--no need to hide it any longer now--kissed little Geoffrey's sleeping
forehead, as he lay in his cradle, and went down to the oaken chamber.

Lord Marnell, who, when angry, looked taller than ever, stood on the
hearth with his arms folded. Abbot Bilson was seated in an arm-chair,
with his cowl thrown back. He was a man of about sixty, with a
finely-formed head, more bald than the tonsure would account for, and a
remarkably soft, persuasive voice and manner. Had the Order of Jesuits
existed at that time, Abbot Bilson might fitly have been the head of it.
"His words were softer than oil, yet were they drawn swords."

"The Lady Marnell," said her husband to the Abbot as she entered, and
the latter, without rising, saluted her with the benediction, "Peace be
with thee, daughter."

"Where is the book?" asked Lord Marnell, sternly, but not quite so
angrily as he had spoken in the morning.

Margery passed it to him.

"See there, reverend father," said he, as he handed it to the Abbot.
"What callest thou that?"

The Abbot turned over the leaves, but the suavity of his manner suffered
no change.

"A fine, clear scribe hath written this," remarked he, politely. "The
Gospel according unto the blessed John, I ween, from the traduction of
Master John Wycliffe, the parson of Lutterworth, who deceased a few
years back. And our good brother Andrew Rous thought no harm of your
keeping the book, my daughter?"

"So he said," answered Margery, shortly.

"Ah! But your father--?"

"Did not like thereof at the first; but after that Father Rous had so
said, he made no further matter."

"Ah! of force. I conceive it fully. Your mother, good daughter?"

"My mother spake not of the matter. She witteth not to read, and
therefore knew not the book."

"Certes," said the abbot, with the most exquisite gentleness. Lord
Marnell, who kept fidgeting up and down the room, seemed almost annoyed
at the Abbot's extreme suavity.

"You had this book from a friend, methinks?" resumed the Abbot.

"I cannot tell you, father, whence I had it," was Margery's firm reply.

The Abbot looked surprised.

"Did our brother Rous lend it you?" he asked, his manner losing a small
portion of its extraordinary softness.

"Nay."

"Some friend, then, belike? Sir Ralph Marston, your good cousin? or
Master Pynson, the squire of my worthy knight your father?"

Margery felt instantaneously that she was in the power of a very