that Lady Maxwell had not spoken a
word. She looked at her; that old wrinkled face with its white crown of
hair and lace had a new and tremendous dignity. There was no anxiety in
it; scarcely even grief; but only a still and awful anguish, towering
above ordinary griefs like a mountain above the world; and there was the
supreme peace too that can only accompany a supreme emotion--she seemed
conscious of nothing but her son.

Isabel could not answer James; and he seemed not to expect it; he had
turned back to his mother again, and they were looking at one another.
Then in a moment Mistress Margaret came back with a glass that she put to
James' lips; and he drank it without a word. She stood looking at the
group an instant or two, and then turned to Isabel.

"Come downstairs with me, my darling; there is nothing more that we can
do."

They went out of the room together; the mother and son had not stirred
again; and Mistress Margaret slipped her arm quickly round the girl's
waist, as they went downstairs.

* * * *

In the cloister beneath was a pleasant little oak parlour looking out on
to the garden and the long south side of the house. Mistress Margaret
took the little hand-lamp that burned in the cloister itself as they
passed along silently together, and guided the girl through into the
parlour on the left-hand side. There was a tall chair standing before the
hearth, and as Mistress Margaret sat down, drawing the girl with her,
Isabel sank down on the footstool at her feet, and hid her face on the
old nun's knees.

There was silence for a minute or two. Mistress Margaret set down the
lamp on the table beside her, and passed her hands caressingly over the
girl's hands and hair; but said nothing, until Isabel's whole body heaved
up convulsively once or twice, before she burst into a torrent of
weeping.

"My darling," said the old lady in a quiet steady voice, "we should thank
God instead of grieving. To think that this house should have given two
confessors to the Church, father and son! Yes, yes, dear child, I know
what you are thinking of, the two dear lads we both love; well, well, we
do not know, we must trust them both to God. It may not be true of
Anthony; and even if it be true--well, he must have thought he was
serving his Queen. And for Hubert----"

Isabel lifted her face and looked with a dreadful questioning stare.

"Dear child," said the nun, "do not lo