ne else," pursued Philippa, "saving the Earl of
Arundel; and you cannot know him."

Even then she felt an intense repugnance to saying, "My father." But,
much to her surprise, the Grey Lady slowly bowed her head.

"And in what manner," began Philippa, "can you know--"

But before she uttered another word, a suspicion which almost terrified
her began to steal over her. She threw herself on her knees at the feet
of the Grey Lady, and grasped her arm tightly.

"All the holy saints have mercy upon us!--are you Isabel La Despenser?"

It seemed an hour to Philippa ere the answer came. And it came in a
tone so low and quivering that she only just heard it.

"I was."

And then a great cry of mingled joy and anguish rang through the lonely
cell.

"Mother! mine own mother! I am Philippa Fitzalan!"

There was no cry from Isabel. She only held out her arms; and in an
embrace as close and tender as that with which they had parted, the
long-separated mother and daughter met.

CHAPTER NINE.

TOGETHER.

"Woe to the eye that sheds no tears -
No tears for God to wipe away!"

"G.E.M."

"And is it so hard to forgive?" asked the soft voice of Isabel.

"I will try, but it seems impossible," responded Philippa. "How can any
forgive injuries that reach down to the very root of the heart and
life?"

"My child," said Isabel, "he that injureth followeth after Satan; but he
that forgiveth followeth after God. It is because our great debt to God
is too mighty for our bounded sight, and we cannot reach to the ends
thereof, that we are so ready to require of our fellow-debtors the small
and sorry sum owed to ourselves. `He that loveth not his brother whom
he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?' And can any
love and yet not forgive?"

"It is sometimes easier to love one ere he be seen than after," said
Philippa, sarcastically.

Isabel smiled rather sadly, for the latent thought in her daughter's
mind was only too apparent to her. Had Philippa known as little of her
father as of her mother, her feeling towards him would have been far
less bitter. But there was no other answer. Even though twenty-seven
years lay between that day and the June morning on which she had quitted
Arundel, Isabel could not trust herself to speak of Richard Fitzalan.
She dared not run the risk of re-opening the wound, by looking to see
whether it had healed.

"Mother," said Philippa suddenly, "thou wilt come with