," he said, "it is hard on the boy; but it must not go on.
Send him to me. Oh! I will be easy with him."

But the interview was not as simple as he hoped; for Hubert was irritable
and shamefaced; and spoke lightly of the Religion again.

"After all," he burst out, "there are plenty of good men who have left
the faith. It brings nothing but misery."

Sir Nicholas' hands began to shake, and his fingers to clench themselves;
but he remembered the lad was in love.

"My son," he said, "you do not know what you say."

"I know well enough," said Hubert, with his foot tapping sharply. "I say
that the Catholic religion is a religion of misery and death everywhere.
Look at the Low Countries, sir."

"I cannot speak of that," said his father; and his son sneered visibly;
"you and I are but laymen; but this I know, and have a right to say, that
to threaten me like that is the act of a--is not worthy of my son. My
dear boy," he said, coming nearer, "you are angry; and, God forgive me!
so am I; but I promised your mother," and again he broke off, "and we
cannot go on with this now. Come again this evening."

Hubert stood turned away, with his head against the high oak mantelpiece;
and there was silence.

"Father," he said at last, turning round, "I ask your pardon."

Sir Nicholas stepped nearer, his eyes suddenly bright with tears, and his
mouth twitching, and held out his hand, which Hubert took.

"And I was a coward to speak like that--but, but--I will try," went on
the boy. "And I promise to say nothing to her yet, at any rate. Will that
do? And I will go away for a while."

The father threw his arms round him.

As the summer drew on and began to fill the gardens and meadows with
wealth, the little Italian garden to the south-west of the Hall was
where my lady spent most of the day. Here she would cause chairs to be
brought out for Mistress Margaret and herself, and a small selection of
devotional books, an orange leather volume powdered all over with
pierced hearts, filled with extracts in a clear brown ink, another book
called _Le Chappellet de Jesus_, while from her girdle beside her
pocket-mirror there always hung an olive-coloured "Hours of the Blessed
Virgin," fastened by a long strip of leather prolonged from the binding.
Here the two old sisters would sit, in the shadow of the yew hedge,
taking it by turns to read and embroider, or talking a little now and
then in quiet voices, with long silences broken only by