lawn, and the glowing beds at the sides. Over to
her right the cloister court ran out, with its two rows of windows,
bedrooms above with galleries beyond, as she knew, and parlours and
cloisters below; the pleasant tinkle of the fountain in the court came
faintly to her ears across the caw of the rooks about the elms and the
low sounds from the stables and the kitchen behind the house. Otherwise
the evening was very still; the two old ladies were sitting near the
fireplace; Lady Maxwell had taken up her embroidery, and was looking at
it listlessly, and Mistress Margaret had one of her devotional books and
was turning the pages, pausing here and there as she did so.

Presently she began to read, without a word of introduction, one of the
musings of the old monk John Audeley in his sickness, and as the tender
lines stepped on, that restless jewelled hand grew still.

"As I lay sick in my languor
In an abbey here by west;
This book I made with great dolour,
When I might not sleep nor rest.
Oft with my prayers my soul I blest,
And said aloud to Heaven's King,
'I know, O Lord, it is the best
Meekly to take thy visiting.
Else well I wot that I were lorn
(High above all lords be he blest!)
All that thou dost is for the best;
By fault of Thee was no man lost,
That is here of woman born.'"

And then she read some of Rolle's verses to Jesus, the "friend of all
sick and sorrowful souls," and a meditation of his on the Passion, and
the tranquil thoughts and tender fragrant sorrows soothed the torn
throbbing soul; and Isabel saw the old wrinkled hand rise to her
forehead, and the embroidery, with the needle still in it slipped to the
ground; as the holy Name "like ointment poured forth" gradually brought
its endless miracle and made all sweet and healthful again.

Outside the daylight was fading; the luminous vault overhead was
deepening to a glowing blue as the sunset contracted on the western
horizon to a few vivid streaks of glory; the room was growing darker
every moment; and Mistress Margaret's voice began to stumble over words.

The great gilt harp in the corner only gleamed here and there now in
single lines of clear gold where the dying daylight fell on the strings.
The room was full of shadows and the image of the Holy Mother and Child
had darkened into obscurity in their niche. The world was silent now too;
the rooks were gone home and the stir of the