ed him with the Holy Ghost and with fire."

Perhaps scarcely any priest then living, Bruno excepted, would have
ventured so far as to say that.

"Oh, this is a weary world!" sighed Beatrice, drearily.

"It is not the only one," replied her father.

"It seems as if we were born only to die!"

"Nay, my child. We were born to live for ever. Those have death who
choose it."

"A great many seem to choose it."

"A great many," said Bruno, sadly.

"Father," said Beatrice, after a short silence, "as a man grows older
and wiser, do you think that he comes to understand any better the
reason of the dark doings of Providence? Can you see any light upon
them, which you did not of old?"

"No, my child, I think not," was Bruno's answer. "If any thing, I
should say they grow darker. But we learn to trust, Beatrice. It is
not less dark when the child puts his hand confidingly in that of his
father; but his mind is the lighter for it. We come to know our Father
better; we learn to trust and wait. `What I do, thou knowest not now:
but thou shalt know hereafter.' And He has told us that in that land
where we are to know even as we are known, we shall be satisfied.
Satisfied with His dealings, then: let us be satisfied with Him, here
and now."

"It is dark!" said Beatrice, with a sob.

"`The morning cometh,'" replied Bruno. "And `in the morning is
gladness.'"

Beatrice stood still and silent for some minutes, only a slight sob now
and then showing the storm through which she had passed. At last, in a
low, troubled voice, she said--

"There is no one to call me Belasez now!"

Bruno clasped her closer.

"My darling!" he said, "so long as the Lord spares us to each other,
thou wilt always be _belle assez_ for me!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. She was the young widow of William, Earl of Pembroke, the
eldest brother of the husband of Marjory of Scotland.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

AT LAST.

"Joy for the freed one! She might not stay
When the crown had fallen from her life away:
She might not linger, a weary thing,
A dove with no home for its broken wing,
Thrown on the harshness of alien skies,
That know not its own land's melodies.
From the long heart-withering early gone,
She hath lived--she hath loved--her task is done!"

_Felicia Hemans_.

"Now, Sir John de Averenches, what on earth dost _thou_ want?"

"Is there no room, Damsel?