ave you with no half nor
quarter salvation. He will not let you lay the foundation whereon He
shall build. He will not tear His fair shining robe of righteousness to
patch your worthless rags. With Him, either not at all, or all in all."

"But what would you have me do?" said Philippa, in a vexed tone.

"Believe," replied Guy.

"Believe what?" said she.

"`Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.'"

"The easiest thing in the world," answered Philippa, a little
contemptuously.

"Is it so?" responded the monk, with a pitying smile. "It seems to me
that you have found it since last June the hardest thing in the world.
Whither go you now?" he asked, suddenly changing his tone.

"I go," she rejoined, "with this child, to the cell of an eremitess of
whom she hath told me, `that hath,' quoth she, `great power of
comforting the sorrowful.' All about here seem to know her. They call
her the Grey Lady."

Guy looked on her long and earnestly, an expression creeping over his
face which Philippa could not understand.

"Be it so," he said at last. "`I will lead the blind by a way that they
know not.' Let my voice be silent when He speaketh. Verily"--and his
voice fell to a softer tone--"I never passed through the deep waters
wherein she has waded; nor, perchance, where you have. Let God speak to
you through her. Go your way."

"But who is she--this Grey Lady?"

Philippa asked in vain. Guy either did not hear her, or would not
answer. He walked rapidly down the hill, with only "Farewell!" as he
passed her; and she went her way, to meet her fate--rather, to meet
God's providence--in the cell of the Grey Lady.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. Anchorites never left their cells, though they received
visitors within them, and sometimes taught children; hermits wandered
about freely.

Note 2. Saint Agnes' Day is January 21; but the 28th, instead of the
octave of Saint Agnes, was commonly called Saint Agnes the second.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

IN THE CELL OF THE GREY LADY.

"Blood must be my body's balmer,--
While my soule, like peaceful palmer,
Travelleth toward the Land of Heaven,
Other balm will not be given."

Sir Walter Raleigh.

Elaine tapped softly on the weatherbeaten door of the cell. It was
merely hollowed out in the rock, and built up in front, with a low door
and a very little window.

"Who is it?" asked a soft vo