, looked strangely white and thin; strong in contour,
with a virile strength; in expression, sensitive as a woman's. He had
removed his biretta, and placed it upon the table. His silvery hair
rolled back from his forehead in silky waves. His was the look of the
saint and the scholar, almost of the mystic--save for the tender humour
in those keen blue eyes, gleaming like beacon lights from beneath the
level eyebrows; eyes which had won the confidence of many a man who
else had not dared unfold his very human story, to one of such saintly
aspect as Symon, Bishop of Worcester. They were turned toward the
sunset, as he made answer to the Prioress.

"The little foolish bird," said the Bishop--and he spoke in that gently
musing tone, which conveys to the mind of the hearer a sense of
infinite leisure in which to weigh and consider the subject in
hand--"The little foolish bird might soon wish herself back in the
safety of the cage. On such as she, the cruel hawks of life do love to
prey. Absorbed in the contemplation of her own charms, she sees not,
until too late, the dangers which surround her. Such little foolish
birds, my daughter, are best in the safe shelter of the cloister.
Moreover, of what value are they in the world? None. If Popinjays wed
them, they do but hatch out broods of foolish little Popinjays. If
true men, caught by mere surface beauty, wed them, it can mean naught
save heartbreak and sorrow, and deterioration of the race. Women of
finer mould"--for an instant the Bishop's eyes strayed from the
sunset--"are needed, to be the mothers of the men who, in the years to
come, are to make England great. Nay, rather than let one escape, I
would shut up all the little foolish birds in a Nunnery, with our
excellent Sub-Prioress to administer necessary discipline."

With his elbows resting upon the arms of the chair, the Bishop put his
fingers together, so that the tips met most precisely; then bent his
lips to them, and looked at the Prioress.

She, troubled and sick at heart, lifting deep pools of silent misery,
met the merry twinkle in the Bishop's eyes, and sat astonished. What
was it like? Why it was like the song of a robin, perched on a frosty
bough, on Christmas morning! It was so young and gay; so jocund, and
so hopeful.

Meeting it, the Prioress realised fully, what she had many times
half-divined, that the revered and reverend Prelate sitting opposite,
for all his robes and dignity, his pa