may choose your hood-stuff from chose velvets," said the Countess
condescendingly to Philippa. "I trow you will have to choose your own
gowns after you are wedded, so you may as well begin now."

"Will Philippa be wed when I am?" yawned Alesia.

"The same day," said the Lady Alianora.

The day was about sixty hours off; and this was the first word that
Philippa had heard of her destiny. To whom was she to be handed over
after this summary fashion? Would the Countess, of her unspeakable
goodness, let her know that? But the Countess could not tell her; she
had not yet heard. She thought there were two knights in treaty for
her, and the last time he had mentioned it, the Earl had not decided
between them.

As soon as Alesia's wardrobe was settled, and Philippa was no longer
wanted to unfold silks and exhibit velvets, she fled like a hunted deer
to her turret-chamber. Kneeling down by her bed, she buried her face in
the coverlet, and the long-repressed cry of the sold slave broke forth
at last.

"O Mother, Mother, Mother!"

The door opened, but Philippa did not hear it.

"Lady, I cry you mercy," said the voice of Agnes in a compassionate
tone. "I meant not indeed to pry into your privacy; but as I was coming
up the stairs, I thought I heard a scream. I feared you were sick."

Philippa looked up, with a white, woe-begone face and tearless eyes.

"I wish I were, Agnes!" she said in a hopeless tone. "I would I were
out of this weary and wicked world."

"Ah, I have wished that ere now," responded the lavender. "'Tis an ill
wish, Lady. I have heard one say so."

"One that never felt it, I trow," said Philippa.

"No did, Lady? Ay, one whose lot was far bitterer than yours."

"Verily, I would give something to see one whose lot were so," answered
the girl, bitterly enough. "I have no mother, and as good as no father;
and none would care were I out of the world this night. Not a soul
loveth me, nor ever did."

"She used to say One did love us," said Agnes in a low voice; "even He
that died on the rood. I would I could mind what she told us; but it is
long, long ago; and mine heart is hard, and my remembrance dim. Yet I
do mind that last time she spake, only the very day before--never mind
what. But that which came after stamped it on mine heart for ever. It
was the last time I heard her voice; and I knew--we all knew--what was
coming, though she did not. It was about water she spake, and he that