e gave. Her bower at Kilquyt
was no more strewn with roses than her turret-chamber at Arundel. She
found that "On change du ciel--l'on ne change point de soi." The damask
robes and caparisoned palfreys, which her husband did not grudge to her
as her father had done, proved utterly unsatisfying to the misunderstood
cravings of her immortal soul. She did not herself comprehend why she
was not happier. She knew not the nature of the thirst which was upon
her, which she was trying in vain to quench at the broken cisterns
within her reach. Drinking of this water, she thirsted again; and she
had not yet found the way to the Well of the Living Water.

About seven years after her marriage, Philippa stood one day at the gate
of her manor. It was a beautiful June morning--just such another as
that one which "had failed her hope" at the gate of Arundel Castle,
thirty years before. Sir Richard had ridden away on his road to London,
whence he was summoned to join his feudal lord, the Earl, and Lady
Sergeaux stood looking after him in her old dreamy fashion, though
half-an-hour had almost passed since she had caught sight of the last
waving of his nodding plume through the trees. He had left her a legacy
of discomfort, for his spurs had been regilded, not at all to his mind,
and he had been growling over them ever since the occurrence, "Dame,
have you a draught of cold water to bestow on a weary brother?"

Philippa started suddenly when the question reached her ear.

He who asked it was a monk in the habit of the Dominican Order, and very
worn and weary he looked. Lady Sergeaux called for one of her women,
and supplied him with the water which he sorely needed, as was manifest
from the eager avidity with which he drank. When he had given back the
goblet, and the woman was gone, the monk turned towards Philippa, and
uttered words which astonished her no little.

"`Quy de cette eaw boyra
Ancor soyf aura;
Mays quy de l'eaw boyra
Que moy luy donneray,
Jamays soyf n'aura
A l'eternite.'"

"You know that, brother?" she said breathlessly.

"Do you, Lady?" asked the monk--as Philippa felt, with a deeper than the
merely literal meaning.

"I know the `ancor soyf aura,'" she said, mournfully; "I have not
reached beyond that."

"Then did you ask, and He did _not_ give?" inquired the stranger.

"No--I never asked, for--" she was going on to add, "I never knew where
to ask."

"Then 'tis little marvel you never