drank should thirst again; and there was another well some whither,
whereof he that should drink should never thirst. And He that died on
the rood would give us that better water, if we asked Him."

"But how shall I get at Him to ask Him?" cried Philippa.

"She said He could hear, if we asked," replied the lavender.

"Who said?"

"She--that you wot of. Our Lady that used to be."

"My mother?"

Agnes nodded. "And the water that He should give should bring life and
peace. It was a sweet story and a fair, as she told it. But there
never was a voice like hers--never."

Philippa rose, and opened her cherished bracelet. She could guess what
that bracelet had been. The ornament was less common in the Middle Ages
than in the periods which preceded and followed them; and it was usually
a love-token. But where was the love which had given and received this?
Was it broken, too, like the bracelet?

She read the device to Agnes.

"It was something like that," said Agnes. "But she read the story
touching it, out of a book."

"What was she like?" asked Philippa in a low tone.

"Look in the mirror, Lady," answered Agnes.

Philippa began to wonder whether this were the mysterious reason for her
bitter lot.

"Dost thou know I am to be wed?"

"Ay, Lady."

So the very lavenders had known it before herself! But finding Agnes,
as she thought, more communicative than before, Philippa returned to her
former subject.

"What was her name?"

Agnes shook her head.

"Thou knowest it?"

The lavender nodded in answer.

"Then why not tell it me? Surely I may know what they christened her at
the font--Philippa, or Margaret, or Blanche?"

Agnes hesitated a moment, but seemed to decide on replying. She sank
her voice so low that Philippa could barely hear her, but she just
caught the words.

"The Lady Isabel."

Philippa sat a minute in silence; but Agnes made no motion to go.

"Agnes, thou saidst her lot was more bitter than mine. How was it more
bitter?"

Agnes pointed to the window of the opposite turret, where the
tiring-women slept, and outside of which was hung a luckless lark in a
small wicker cage.

"Is his lot sweet, Lady?"

"I trow not, in good sooth," said Philippa; "but his is like mine."

"I cry you mercy," answered the lavender, shaking her head. "He hath
known freedom, and light, and air, and song. That was her lot--not
yours, Lady."

Philippa continued to watch the lark. His poor ca