two together;
and then suddenly laugh and kiss her--Isabel's transparency was almost as
great a riddle to her as her own obscurity to Isabel. And sometimes she
would throw herself on Isabel's bed, and lie there with her arms behind
her head, to the deplorable ruin of her ruff; with her buckled feet
twitching and tapping; and go on and on talking like a running stream in
the sun that runs for the sheer glitter and tinkle of it, and
accomplishes nothing. But she was more respectful to Isabel's simplicity
than at first, and avoided dangerous edges and treacherous ground in a
manner that surprised herself, telling her of the pageants at Court and
fair exterior of it all, and little about the poisonous conversations and
jests and the corrupt souls that engaged in them.

She was immensely interested in Isabel's religion.

"Tell me, child," she said one day, "I cannot understand such a religion.
It is not like the Protestant religion at Court at all. All that the
Protestants do there is to hear sermons--it is all so dismal and noisy.
But here, with you, you have a proper soul. It seems to me that you are
like a little herb-garden, very prim and plain, but living and wholesome
and pleasant to walk in at sunset. And these Protestants that I know are
more like a paved court at noon--all hot and hard and glaring. They give
me the headache. Tell me all about it."

Of course Isabel could not, though she tried again and again. Her
definitions were as barren as any others.

"I see," said Mary Corbet one day, sitting up straight and looking at
Isabel. "It is not your religion but you; your religion is as dull as all
the rest. But your soul is sweet, my dear, and the wilderness blossoms
where you set your feet. There is nothing to blush about. It's no credit
to you, but to God."

Isabel hated this sort of thing. It seemed to her as if her soul was
being dragged out of a cool thicket from the green shadow and the
flowers, and set, stripped, in the high road.

Another time Miss Corbet spoke yet more plainly.

"You are a Catholic at heart, my dear; or you would be if you knew what
the Religion was. But your father, good man, has never understood it
himself; and so you don't know it either. What you think about us, my
dear, is as much like the truth as--as--I am like a saint, or you like a
sinner. I'll be bound now that you think us all idolaters!"

Isabel had to confess that she did think something of the sort.

"There, now, wha