her, my gracious Lord of Arundel: and I hereby charge you, on
your obedience, so soon as you shall receive this my letter, that you
return home, and tarry no longer at Shaftesbury nor Sempringham. Know
that I fare reasonably well, and Eustace my squire; and your fair
father likewise, saving that he hath showed much anger towards you and
me. And thus, praying God and our blessed Lady, and Saint Peter and
Saint Paul, to keep you. I rest.

"R. Sergeaux."

The entire epistle was written by a scribe, for Sir Richard was as
innocent of the art of calligraphy as Philippa herself; and the
appending of his seal was the only part of the letter achieved by his
own hand.

Philippa read the note three times before she communicated its contents
to any one. The first time, it was with feelings of bitter anger
towards both her father and her husband; the second, her view of her
father's conduct remained unchanged, but she began to see that Sir
Richard, from his own point of view, was not without reasonable excuse
for his refusal, and that considering the annoyance he had himself
suffered, his letter was moderate and even tolerably kind,--kind, that
is, for him. After the third perusal, Philippa carried the letter to
Joan, and read it to her--not in Isabel's presence.

"What a fool wert thou, child," said Joan, with her usual bluntness, "to
send to thy lord concerning this matter! Well, what is done, is done.
I had looked for no better had I known of it."

Philippa did not read the letter to her mother. She merely told her the
substance; that Sir Richard would not permit her to receive her at
Kilquyt, and that he had ordered her home without delay. Isabel's lip
quivered a moment, but the next instant she smiled.

"I am not surprised, my child," she said. "Take heed, and obey." It
was hard work to obey. Hard, to part with Joan; harder yet, to leave
Isabel in her lonely cell at Sempringham, and to go forward on the as
lonely journey to Kilquyt. Perhaps hardest of all was the last night in
the recreation-room at Sempringham. Isabel and Philippa sat by
themselves in a corner, the hand of the eremitess clasped in that of her
daughter.

"But how do you account for all the sorrow that is in the world?"
Philippa had been saying. "Take my life, for instance, or your own,
mother. God could have given us very pleasant lives, if it had pleased
Him; why did He not do so? How can it augur love, to take out of ou