d now into active hatred. Had she at that moment
been summoned to his deathbed, she would either have refused to go near
him at all, or have gone with positive pleasure.

But beside all this, Philippa could not avoid the conclusion that her
salvation was as far from being accomplished as it had been when she
reached Shaftesbury. She felt further off it than ever; it appeared to
recede from her at every approach. Very uneasily she remembered Guy's
farewell words,--"God strip you of your own goodness!" The Living Water
seemed as distant as before; but the thirst grew more intense. And yet,
like Hagar in the wilderness, the Well was beside her all the time; but
until the Angel of the Lord should open her eyes, she could not see it.

She reached Sempringham, and took up her abode for the night in the
convent, uncertain how long she would remain there. An apparently
trivial incident decided that question for her.

As Philippa stood at the convent gate, in a mild winter morning, she
heard a soft, sweet voice singing, and set herself to discover whence
the sound proceeded. The vocalist was readily found,--a little girl of
ten years old, who was sitting on a bank a few yards from the gate, with
a quantity of snowdrops in her lap, which she was trying with partial
success to weave into a wreath. Philippa--weary of idleness, Books of
Hours, and embroidery--drew near to talk with her.

"What is thy name?" she asked, by way of opening negotiations.

"Elaine," said the child, lifting a pair of timid blue eyes to her
questioner's face.

"And where dwellest thou?"

"Down yonder glade, Lady: my father is Wilfred the convent woodcutter."

"And who taught thee to speak French?"

"The holy sisters, Lady."

"What wert thou singing a minute since?"

The child drooped her head shyly.

"Do not be afraid," said Philippa gently. "I like to hear singing.
Wilt thou sing it again to me?"

Elaine hesitated a moment; but another glance at Philippa's smiling face
seemed to reassure her, and she sang, in a low voice, to a sweet, weird
tune:--

"`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.'"

"This must be very widely known," thought Philippa.--"Who taught thee
that--the holy sisters?" she asked of the child.

"No," answered Elaine, shaking her head. "The Grey Lady."

"And who is the Grey Lady?"

The look with which Elaine replied,