of thus
loudly!"

"But, Madam!" cries Sister Denise--her tears, methinks, burned up by her
vexation--"bethink you, Sir Michael my cousin is a knight, and his wife
the Lady Katherine heiress of Wingfield, and the Lady Katherine his
mother 'longeth to the knights De Norwich. And look you, his sister is
my Lady Scrope, and his cousin wedded the heir of the Lord Cobham of
Kent."

"Nay, tarry not there," said my Lady; "do go a bit further while thou
art about it. Was not my Lady Joan Cobham's mother daughter to my Lady
of Devon, whose mother was daughter unto King Edward of Westminster--so
thou art akin to the King himself? I cry thee mercy, my Lady Princess,
that I set thee to scrub boards.--Sister Annora, prithee, let this
princely damsel go to school for a bit--she's short of heraldry. The
heiress of Wingfield, _the_ Lady Katherine, forsooth! and the daughter
of Sir John de Norwich a `Lady' at all! Why, child, we only call the
King's kinswomen _the_ Lord and Lady. As to thy cousin Sir Michael, he
is a woolmonger and lindraper [linen draper. The _en_ is a corruption]
that the King thought fit to advance, because it pleased him, and maybe
he had parts [talents] of some sort. Sure thou hast no need to stick up
thy back o' that count! To-morrow, Sister Denise, thou wilt please to
clean the fire-dogs, and carry forth the ashes to the lye-heap.--Come,
Sister Annora; I lack you elsewhere."

Poor little Denise broke into bitterer tears than ever; but I could not
stay to comfort her, for I had to follow my Lady.

"I do vow, this world is full of fools!" said she, as we went along the
corridor. "We shall have Sister Parnel, next, protesting that she knows
not how much oats be a bushel, and denying to rub in the salt to a
bacon, lest it should make her fingers sore. And 'tis always those who
have small reason that make fusses like this. A King's daughter, when
she takes the veil, looks for no different treatment from the rest; but
a squire's daughter expects to have a round dozen of her Sisters told
off to wait upon her.--Sister Egeline, feathers for stuffing are
three-farthings a pound; prithee strew not all the floors therewith.
(Sister Egeline had dropped no more than one; but my Lady is lynx-eyed.)
Truly, it was time some one took this house in hand. Had my sometime
Lady ruled it another twelvemonth, there would have been never a bit of
discipline left. There's none so much now. Sister Roberga had better
look