to Thekla
were wanton cruelty, though I do fancy she should be the best comforter.
So I must wait on, and cry unto God. It may be that is the very thing
He would have of me."

Bad news came by Austin, early in 1557--the death of the Earl of Sussex
[Note 4], Mr Rose's chief friend in high places. Poor Marguerite was
much downcast, saying they had now lost their best friend.

"No, Mother dear," answered Thekla, "not our best Friend. He is in an
higher place; and He dieth no more."

Another Easter came and passed; and King Philip returned to England.

Every now and then Austin visited the Lamb; but he brought no news of
Robin. Isoult thought she had never realised how dearly she loved the
lad till now. It was hard to thank God for such a blank in the home as
this; and yet deep in the inmost heart she knew, as every Christian
knows, that the Father was doing all things well, and that "there was no
must be without a needs be." To wait on the Lord is no easy task to
flesh and blood; but there is one thing yet harder, and that is to rest
in the Lord while waiting.

And meanwhile Thekla drooped and faded, day by day. She never spoke now
of Robin; but it was easy to see that she had not forgotten him. Slower
and more languid grew her step, and her face whiter and graver, with an
expression of sorrowful patience, which did not quit its hold upon the
lips even when they smiled.

"She is worn to a shadow," said Marguerite, bitterly. "Why cannot we go
home to God? What profit is it to Him that we do suffer?"

And Isoult was silent; but she remembered Robin's words about "believers
in the dark."

On the 7th of June, which was Whit Monday, there was a Passion Play at
Court. Isoult, coming in from a call upon her neighbour, Mrs Brent,
observed in a rather disgusted tone--

"Gillian Brent must needs go to see this mystery. For me, I might as
easily or as willingly go to see a martyrdom. She saith 'tis right
sweet and devotional, and maketh her to feel so good she cannot tell how
much. 'Tis a sort of goodness I covet not. It were like murdering the
Son of God over again, to see His blessed name taken upon himself of a
sinful man, and His bitter passion set forth to divert men. Gillian
saith none will see the thing as I do; but that cannot I help.
Perchance He may, when He looketh down upon it."

At her house at Chelsea, on the 16th of July, died Anna of Cleve, one of
the two widows of Henry the Eighth. She c