was still a child, and of his
death when she was about sixteen. She had had money of her own, and had
come up to live with Mrs. More's sisters; and so had gradually slipped
into intimacy at Chelsea. Then she described the life there--the ordered
beauty of it all--and the marvellous soul that was its centre and sun.
She told her of More's humour, his unfailing gaiety, his sweet cynicism
that shot through his talk, his tender affections, and above all--for
she knew this would most interest the nun--his deep and resolute
devotion to God. She described how he had at one time lived at the
Charterhouse, and had seemed to regret, before the end of his life, that
he had not become a Carthusian; she told her of the precious parcel that
had been sent from the Tower to Chelsea the day before his death, and
how she had helped Margaret Roper to unfasten it and disclose the
hair-shirt that he had worn secretly for years, and which now he had
sent back for fear that it should be seen by unfriendly eyes or praised
by flattering tongues.

Her face grew inexpressibly soft and loving as she talked; more than
once her black eyes filled with tears, and her voice faltered; and the
nun sat almost terrified at the emotion she had called up. It was hardly
possible that this tender feminine creature who talked so softly of
divine and human things and of the strange ardent lawyer in whom both
were so manifest, could be the same stately lady of downstairs who
fenced so gallantly, who never winced at a wound and trod so bravely
over sharp perilous ground.

"They killed him," said Beatrice. "King Henry killed him; for that he
could not bear an honest, kindly, holy soul so near his own. And we are
left to weep for him, of whom--of whom the world was not worthy."

Margaret felt her hand caught and caressed; and the two sat in silence a
moment.

"But--but--" began the nun softly, bewildered by this revelation.

"Yes, my dear; you did not know--how should you?--what a wound I carry
here--what a wound we all carry who knew him."

Again there was a short silence. Margaret was searching for some word of
comfort.

"But you did what you could for him, did you not? And--and even Ralph, I
think I heard--"

Beatrice turned and looked at her steadily. Margaret read in her face
something she could not understand.

"Yes--Ralph?" said Beatrice questioningly.

"You told father so, did you not? He did what he could for Master More?"

Beatrice laid her o