her head.

"Then come in hither." And she pulled her into her own room, and shut
the door. "Agnes, there is some strange thing I cannot understand: and
I will understand it. What letteth [hinders] thee to speak to me of my
mother?"

Agnes looked astonished at Philippa's tone, as well she might. "It hath
been forbidden, Lady."

"Who forbade it?"

The lavender's compressed lips sufficiently intimated that she did not
mean to answer that question.

"Why was it forbidden?"

The continued silence replied.

"When died she? Thou mayest surely tell me so much."

"I dare not, Lady," replied Agnes in a scarcely audible whisper.

"How died she?"

"Lady, I dare not answer,--I must not. You weary yourself to no good."

"But I will know," said Philippa, doggedly.

"Not from me, Lady," answered the lavender with equal determination.

"What does it all mean?" moaned poor Philippa to her baffled self.
"Look here, Agnes. Hast thou ever seen this bracelet?"

"Ay, Lady. The Lady Alianora never deigns to speak to such as we poor
lavenders be, but _she_ did not think it would soil her lips to comfort
us when our hearts were sad. I have seen her wear that jewel."

A terrible fancy all at once occurred to Philippa.

"Agnes, was she an evil woman, that thou wilt not speak of her?"

The lavender's heart was reached, and her tongue loosed.

"No, no, Lady, no!" she cried, with a fervour of which Philippa had not
imagined her capable. "The snow was no whiter than her life, the honey
no sweeter than her soul!"

"Then what does it all mean?" said Philippa again, in a tone of more
bewilderment than ever.

But the momentary fervour had died away, and silence once more settled
on the lavender's tongue. Agnes louted, and walked away; and Philippa
knew only one thing more--that the broken bracelet had been her
mother's. But who was she, and what was she, this mysterious mother of
whom none would speak to her--the very date of whose death her child was
not allowed to know?

"That is too poor for you, Alesia," said the Lady Alianora.

"'Tis but thin, in good sooth," observed that young lady.

"I suppose Philippa must have a gown for the wedding," resumed the
Countess, carelessly. "It will do for her."

It was cloth of silver. Philippa had never had such a dress in her
life. She listened in mute surprise. Could it be possible that she was
intended to appear as a daughter of the house at Alesia's marriage?

"You