ng, and cared for nothing," she met with an old priest of
venerable aspect, a trusted servant of King Edward, whose first words
touched the deepest chord in her heart, while his second brought the
healing balm. His name was John de Wycliffe. Was it any wonder that
she accepted him as a very angel of God?

For he showed her where rest was, not within, but without; not from
beneath, nor from around, but from above. So the tired heart rested in
Jesus here, looking forward to its perfected rest in the presence of
Jesus hereafter.

For so far as the world was concerned, there was no rest any longer. It
was fearfully up-hill work for Isabel to aim at such a walk as should
please God. Her husband did not oppose her; he was as profoundly
indifferent to her new opinions and practices as he had been to her old
ones, as he was to herself. So far as her life was concerned, of the
two he considered that she had altered for the better. There had never
been but one heart which had loved Isabel, and that heart she pierced as
with a sword when she entered her new path on the narrow way.

To Constanca of Castilla, the sister who had shared with her their
"heritage of woe," this younger sister was inexpressibly dear. The two
sisters had married two brothers, and they saw a good deal of each other
until that time; but after Isabel cast in her lot with Wycliffe, very
little. The Gospel parted these loving sisters as with a sword; the
magnet was received by each at an opposite end. It attracted Isabel,
and repelled Constanca. The elder wanted nothing more than she had
always had; the gorgeous ceremonies and absolving priests of the old
Church satisfied her, and she demanded no further comfort. She was "a
woman devout above all others" in the eyes of the monkish chroniclers.
And that usually meant that in this world she never awoke to her soul's
uttermost need, and she was therefore content with the meagre supply she
found. So the difference between the sisters was that Constanca slept
peacefully while Isabel had awoke.

It was because Isabel had awoke, that she was unsatisfied with the round
of ritual observances which were all in all to her sister. She could
confess to man, and be absolved by man; but how could she wrestle
against the conviction that she rose from the confessional with a soul
none the cleaner, with a heart just as disinclined to go and sin no
more? The branches might be lopped; but what mattered that while