oan,
the more satirical was Dorothy. The only sunshine of her life was on
those precious Sunday afternoons, when always the tall gaunt figure
might be seen ascending the desk in the nave of Saint Paul's, and, after
the reading from Scripture, came a few pithy, fervent words, which Agnes
treasured up as very gems. But by-and-by, another gleam of sunlight
began to creep into her life.

It was again Sunday afternoon, and the reading in Saint Paul's was over
for that day. But it was too soon to go back to the bosom of that
uncongenial household which Agnes called home; for Mistress Winter was
generally extra cross--and the ordinary exhibition was enough without
the extra--if Agnes presented herself before she was expected. The now
deserted steps of the Cross were the only place where she could sit; and
accordingly she took refuge there. Not many minutes were over, when she
recognised the dark figure of Friar Laurence passing through the
churchyard with his usual rapid step. All at once a thought seemed to
strike him. He paused, turned, and came straight up to the place where
Agnes was seated.

"And how is it with thee, my daughter?" he demanded.

"Well, Father; and I thank you," said she. "Verily, touching outward
things, as aforetime; but touching the inward, methinks the good Lord
learneth me somewhat."

"Be thou an apt scholar," said he.

Agnes grew desperate, and resolved to plunge into the matter. She was
afraid lest he should leave her, with one of his usual rapid movements,
before she had got to know what she wanted.

"Father!" she said hastily, crimsoning as she spoke, "pray you, give me
leave to demand a thing of you."

"Ask thy will, my daughter."

"Pray you, tell me of your grace, wherefore in your goodly discourses
you make at all no mention of our Lady?"

The Friar sat down on the steps, when he was asked that question.

"What wouldst thou have me for to say of her?"

"Nay, Father!" returned Agnes, humbly. "You be a learned priest, and I
but an ignorant maiden; but having alway heard them that did preach
sermons to make much of our Lady, methought I would fain wit, an' I
might ask it at you, wherefore you make thus little."

"My child!" answered the Friar quietly, "who died on the rood for thee?"

"Jesus Christ our Lord," responded Agnes readily.

"What! not Saint Mary?"

"Certes, nay, Father, as methinks."

"And who is it that pleadeth with God for thee?"

"You have told me, Fat