n of the cross, and a very mournful expression
came over her face.

"Ah, holy Virgin!" she said, lifting her sightless eyes, "why is it that
such things are permitted? The wicked dwell in peace, and increase
their goods; the holy dwell hardly and die poor. Couldst not thou
change the lots? There is at this moment one man in the world, clad in
cloth of gold, dwelling gloriously, than whom the foul fiend himself is
scarcely worse; and there was one woman, like the angels, whose Queen
thou art, and only God and thou know what became of her. Blessed Mary
must such things always be? I cannot understand it. I suppose thou
canst."

It was the old perplexity--as old as Asaph; but he understood it when he
went into the sanctuary of God, and Mother Joan had never followed him
there.

"Lady de Sergeaux," resumed the blind nun, "there is at times a tone in
your voice, which mindeth me strangely of hers--hers, of whom I spake
but now. If I offend not in asking it, I pray you tell me who were your
elders?"

Philippa gave her such information as she had to give. "I am a daughter
of my Lord of Arundel."

"Which Lord?" exclaimed Mother Joan, in a voice as of deep interest
suddenly awakened.

"They call him," answered Philippa, "Earl Richard the Copped-Hat." [See
Note 4.]

"Ah!" answered Mother Joan, in that deep bass tone which sounds almost
like an execration. "That was the man. Like Dives, clad in purple and
fine linen, and faring sumptuously every day; and his portion shall be
with Dives at the last. Your pardon, Dame; I forgat for the nonce that
I spake to his daughter. Yet I said but truth."

"That may be," responded Philippa under her breath.

"Then you have not found him a saint?" replied the blind nun, with a
bitter little laugh. "Well, I might have guessed that. And you, then,
are a daughter of that proud jade Alianora of Lancaster, for whose
indwelling the fiend swept the Castle of Arundel clean of God's angels?
I do not think she made up for it."

Philippa's own interest was painfully aroused now. Surely Mother Joan
knows something of that mysterious history which hitherto she had failed
so sadly to discover.

"I cry you mercy, Mother," she said. "But I am not the daughter of the
Lady Alianora."

"Whose, then? Quick!" cried Mother Joan, in accents of passionate
earnestness.

"Who was my mother," answered Philippa, "I cannot tell you, for I was
never told myself. All that I know of her I h