hood straight. Then she busied herself with my
neckkerchief and whispered in my ear: "Who is that?"

So I replied: "Little Ann;" and when she went on to ask who her father
might be, I told her she was a scrivener's daughter, and was about to
speak of her with hearty good will, when my cousin stopped me by saying
to Ann: "God save you child; Margery and I must hurry." And she strove
to get me on and away; but I struggled to be free from her, and cried
out with the wilful pride which at that time I was wont to show when I
thought folks would hinder that which seemed good and right in my eyes:
"Little Ann shall come with us."

But the little maid had her pride likewise, and said firmly: "Be
dutiful, Margery; I can go alone." At this Cousin Maud looked at her
more closely, and thereupon her eyes had the soft light of good will
which I loved so well, and she herself began to question Ann about her
kinsfolk. The little maid answered readily but modestly, and when my
Cousin understood that her father was a certain writer in the Chancery
of whom she had heard a good report, she was softer and more gentle, so
that when I took hold again of Ann's little hand she let it pass,
and presently, at parting, kissed her on the brow and bid her carry a
greeting to her worthy father.

Now, when I was alone with Cousin Maud and gave her to understand that I
loved the scribe's little daughter and wished for no dearer friend, she
answered gravely; "Little maids can hold no conversation with any but
those whose mothers meet in each other's houses. Take patience till
I can speak to Sister Margaret." So when my Cousin went out in the
afternoon I tarried in the most anxious expectation; but she came home
with famous good tidings, and thenceforward Ann was a friend to whom I
clung almost as closely as to my brothers. And which of us was the chief
gainer it would be hard to say, for whereas I found in her a trusted
companion to whom I might impart every thing which was scarce worthy of
my brothers' or my Cousin's ears, and foremost of all things my childish
good-will for my Cousin Gotz and love of the Forest, to her the place in
my heart and in our house were as a haven of peace when she craved rest
after the heavy duties which, for all she was so young, she had already
taken upon herself.

CHAPTER III.

True it is that the class I learnt in at the convent was under the
strictest rule, and that my teacher was a Carthusian nun; and yet I