ur, without one word of comfort, to the convent of Wherwell;--my
father, my mother, my kin, all in exile; and my tears falling fast for
them, but not on a husband's bosom."

"Ah then, noble Edith," said the girl, colouring with anger at the
remembered wrong for her Queen, "ah then, surely, at least, thy heart
made itself heard."

"Heard, yea verily," said the Queen, looking up, and pressing her hands;
"heard, but the soul rebuked it. And the soul said, 'Blessed are they
that mourn;' and I rejoiced at the new trial which brought me nearer to
Him who chastens those He loves."

"But thy banished kin--the valiant, the wise; they who placed thy lord on
the throne?"

"Was it no comfort," answered the Queen simply, "to think that in the
House of God my prayers for them would be more accepted than in the halls
of kings? Yes, my child, I have known the world's honour, and the
world's disgrace, and I have schooled my heart to be calm in both."

"Ah, thou art above human strength, Queen and Saint," exclaimed Edith;
"and I have heard it said of thee, that as thou art now, thou wert from
thine earliest years [115]; ever the sweet, the calm, the holy--ever less
on earth than in heaven."

Something there was in the Queen's eyes, as she raised them towards Edith
at this burst of enthusiasm, that gave for a moment, to a face otherwise
so dissimilar, the likeness to her father; something, in that large
pupil, of the impenetrable unrevealing depth of a nature close and secret
in self-control. And a more acute observer than Edith might long have
been perplexed and haunted with that look, wondering if, indeed, under
the divine and spiritual composure, lurked the mystery of human passion.

"My child," said the Queen, with the faintest smile upon her lips, and
drawing Edith towards her, "there are moments when all that breathe the
breath of life feel, or have felt, alike. In my vain youth I read, I
mused, I pondered, but over worldly lore. And what men called the
sanctity of virtue, was perhaps but the silence of thought. Now I have
put aside those early and childish dreams and shadows, remembering them
not, save (here the smile grew more pronounced) to puzzle some poor
schoolboy with the knots and riddles of the sharp grammarian [116]. But
not to speak of my self have I sent for thee. Edith, again and again,
solemnly and sincerely, I pray thee to obey the wish of my lord the King.
And now, while yet in all the bloom of thought,