had, Lady," answered the monk.

"But how to ask?--whom to ask? There may be the Well, but where is the
way?"

"How to ask, Lady? As I asked you but now for that lower, poorer water,
whereof whosoever drinketh shall thirst again. Whom to ask? Be there
more Gods in Heaven than one? Ask the Master, not the servants. And
where is the way? It was made on the red rood, thirteen hundred years
ago, when `one of the soldiers with a spear pierced His side, and
forthwith came thereout blood and water.' Over that stream of blood is
the way to the Well of Living Water."

"I do not fully understand you," returned Philippa.

"You look weary, Lady," said the monk, changing his tone.

"I am weary," she answered; "wearier than you--in one sense."

"Ay, wearier than I," he replied; "for I have been to the Well, and have
found rest."

"Are you a priest?" asked Philippa suddenly.

The monk nodded.

"Then come in hither and rest, and let me confess to you. I fancy you
might tell me what would help me."

The monk silently obeyed, and followed her to the house. An hour later
he sat in Philippa's bower, and she knelt before him.

"Father," she said, at the close of her tale, "I have never known rest
nor love. All my life I have been a lonely, neglected woman. Is there
any balm-tree by your Well for such wounds as mine?--any healing virtue
in its waters that could comfort me?"

"Have you never injured or neglected any, daughter?" asked the monk
quietly.

"Never!" she said, almost indignantly.

"I cannot hold with you there," he replied.

"Whom have I ever injured?" exclaimed Philippa, half angrily, half
amazed.

"Listen," said he, "and I will tell you of One whom all your life you
have injured and neglected--God."

Philippa's protestations died on her lips. She had not expected to hear
such words as these.

"Nay, heed not my words," he pursued gently. "Your own lips shall bring
you in guilty. Have you loved God with all your mind, and heart, and
soul, and strength? Hath He been in all your thoughts?"

Philippa felt instinctively that the monk spoke truly. She had not
loved God, she had not even wished to love Him. Her conscience cried to
her, "Unclean!" yet she was too proud to acknowledge it. She felt
angry, not with herself, but with him. She thought he "rubbed the sore,
when he should bring the plaster." Comfort she had asked, and
condemnation he was giving her instead.

"Father!" she said, in m