Old Turguia has some in her
house, and she says they take never a bit of notice of our Lady nor
Saint Helen, that she has upstairs and down; they just kneel down and
fall a-praying anywhere. What sort of work do you call that?"

"I don't know as I wish to call it anything in particular, without
you're very anxious," replied Isel.

"But I am anxious about it, Aunt. These folks are in your house, and if
they are witches and such like, it's you and the girls who will suffer."

"Well, do you think it's much matter?" asked Isel, putting aside the
lampreys, and taking up a bushel basket of Kentish pearmains. "If our
Lady could hear me in one corner, I reckon she could hear me in
another."

"But to turn their backs on them!" remonstrated Anania.

"Well, I turn mine on her, when I'm at work, many a time of a day."

"Work--ay. But not when you're at prayer, I suppose?"

"Oh, it'll be all right at last, I hope," said Isel a little uneasily.

"Hope's poor fare, Aunt. But I tell you, these folks are after no good.
Why, only think! five of them got taken in by those rascals of Jews--
three in Benefei's house, and two at Jurnet's. _They'd_ never have
taken them in, depend on it, if they hadn't known they weren't so much
better than they should be."

Agnes and Ermine understood none of these words, though they saw readily
enough that the looks Anania cast upon them were not friendly. But
Derette spoke up for her friends.

"They're much better than you, Cousin Anania!" said that downright young
woman.

"Keep a civil tongue in your head," replied Anania sharply.

"I'd rather have a true one," was the child's answer; "and I'm not sure
they always go together."

"Osbert says," pursued Anania, ignoring Derette, "that he expects
there'll be a stir when my Lord comes to hear of them. Much if they
don't get turned out, bag and baggage. Serve 'em right, too!"

"They haven't got any bags," said literal Derette. "I don't think
they've any of them any clothes but what they wear. Only Gerard's got a
book."

"A book! What is it about?" cried Anania. "Is he a priest?--surely
not!"

Only a priest or monk, in her eyes, could have any business with a book.

"Oh no, he's no priest; he's a weaver."

"Then what on earth is he doing with a book? You get hold of it, Aunt!
I'll warrant you it's some sort of wickedness--safe to be! Black spells
to turn you all into ugly toads, or some such naughty stuff--take my
word for