"Anania will have it he is never coming again."

"I dare say she is right there," said Derette suddenly.

"Saints alive! what dost thou mean, child? Never coming again?"

"I shouldn't wonder," said Derette quietly.

"Well, I should. I should wonder more than a little, I can tell you.

Whatever gives you that fancy, child?"

"I have it, Mother; why I cannot tell you."

"I hope you are not a prophetess!"

"I don't think I am," said Derette with a smile.

"I think Ermine was a bit of one, poor soul! She seemed to have some notion what was coming to her. Eh, Derette! I'd give my best gown to know those poor things were out of Purgatory. Father Dolfin says we shouldn't pray for them: but I do--I can't help it. If I were a priest, I'd say ma.s.s for them every day I lived--ay, I would! I never could understand why we must not pray for heretics. Seems to me, the more wrong they've gone, the more they want praying for. Not that _they_ went far wrong--I'll not believe it. Derette, dost thou ever pray for the poor souls?"

"Ay, Mother: every one of them."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it. And as to them that ill-used them, let them look to themselves. Maybe they'll not find themselves at last in such a comfortable place as they look for. The good Lord may think that cruelty to Christian blood [Note 3]--and they were Christian blood, no man can deny--isn't so very much better than heresy after all. Hope he does."

"I remember Gerard's saying," replied Derette, "that all the heresies in the world were only men's perversions of G.o.d's truths: and that if men would but keep close to Holy Scripture, there would be no heresies."

"Well, it sounds like reason, doesn't it?" answered Isel with a sigh.

"But I remember his saying also," pursued Derette, "that where one man followed reason and Scripture, ten listened to other men's voices, and ten more to their own fancies."

Dusk was approaching on the following day, when a rap came on the door of the anchorhold, and a voice said--

"Leuesa, pray you, ask my cousin to come to the cas.e.m.e.nt a moment."

"Stephen!" cried Derette, hurrying to her little window when she heard his voice. "So you have come back!"

"Shall I go now, Lady, for the fresh fish?" asked Leuesa, very conveniently for Stephen, who wondered if she good-naturedly guessed that he had a private communication to make.

"Do," said Derette, giving her three silver pennies.

As soon as Leuesa was out of hearing, Stephen said--"I am only here for a few hours, Derette, and n.o.body knows it save my Lord, you, and my brother. I have obtained my discharge, and return to London with the dawn."

"Are you not meaning to come back, Stephen? Folks are saying that."

"Folks are saying truth. I shall live in London henceforth. But remember, Derette, that is a secret."

"I shall not utter it, Stephen. Truly, I wish you all happiness, but I cannot help being sorry."

There were tears in Derette's eyes. Stephen had ever been more brotherly to her than her own brothers. It was Stephen who had begged her off from many a punishment, had helped her over many a difficulty, had made her rush baskets and wooden boats, and had always had a sweetmeat in his pocket for her in childhood. She was grieved to think of losing him.

"You may well wish me happiness in my honeymoon," he said, laughingly.

"Are you married? Why, when--O Stephen, Stephen! is it Ermine?"

"You are a first-rate guesser, little one. Yes, I have Ermine safe; and I will keep her so, G.o.d helping me."

"I am so glad, Steenie!" said Derette, falling into the use of the old pet name, generally laid aside now. "Tell Ermine I am so glad to hear that, and so sorry to lose you both: but I will pray G.o.d and the saints to bless you as long as I live, and that will be better for you than our meeting, though it will not be the same thing to me."

"'So glad, and so sorry!' It seems to me, Cousin, that's no inapt picture of life. G.o.d keep thee!--to the day when--Ermine says--it will be all 'glad' and no 'sorry.'"

"Ay, we shall meet one day. Farewell!"

The days pa.s.sed, and no more was seen or heard of Stephen in Oxford.

What had become of him was not known at the Walnut Tree, until one evening when Osbert looked in about supper-time, and was invited to stay for the meal, with the three of whom the family now consisted--Manning, Isel, and Haimet. As Isel set on the table a platter of little pies, she said--

"There, that's what poor Stephen used to like so well. Maybe you'll fancy them too, Osbert."

"Why do you call him poor Stephen?" questioned Osbert, as he appropriated a pie. "He is not particularly poor, so far as I know."

"Well, we've lost him like," said Isel, with a sigh. "When folks vanish out of your sight like snow in a thaw, one cannot help feeling sorry."

"Oh, I'm sorry for myself, more ways than one: but not so much for Stephen."

"Why, Osbert, do you know where he is, and what he's doing?"

"Will you promise not to let on to Anania, if I tell you?"

"Never a word that I can help, trust me."

"Her knowing matters nought, except that she'll never let me be if she thinks I have half a notion about it. Well, he's gone south somewhere-- I don't justly know where, but I have a guess of London way."

"What for?"

"Dare say he had more reasons than he gave me. He told me he was going to be married."

"Dear saints!--who to?"

"Didn't ask him."

Isel sat looking at Osbert in astonishment, with a piece of pie transfixed on the end of her knife.

"You see, if I did not know, I shouldn't get so much bothered with folks asking me questions: so I thought I'd let it be."

That Osbert's "folks" might more properly be read "Anania," Isel knew full well.

"Saints love us!--but I would have got to know who was my sister-in-law, if I'd been in your place."

"To tell the truth, Aunt, I don't care, so long as she is a decent woman who will make Stephen comfortable; and I think he's old enough to look out for himself."

"But don't you know even what he was going to do?--seek another watch, or go into service, or take to trade, or what?"