o Gouda parsonage, The moon and stars
were so bright, it seemed almost as light as day.

Suddenly Gerard stopped. "My poor little birds!"

"What of them?"

"They will miss their food. I feed them every day."

"The child hath a piece of bread in his cowl, Take that, and feed them
now against the morn."

"I will. Nay, I will not, He is as innocent, and nearer to me and to
thee."

Margaret drew a long breath, "'Tis well, Hadst taken it, I might have
hated thee; I am but a woman."

When they had gone about a quarter of a mile, Gerard sighed.

"Margaret," said he, "I must e'en rest; he is too heavy for me."

"Then give him me, and take thou these. Alas! alas! I mind when thou
wouldst have run with the child on one shoulder, and the mother on
t'other."

And Margaret carried the boy.

"I trow," said Gerard, looking down, "overmuch fasting is not good for a
man."

"A many die of it each year, winter time," replied Margaret.

Gerard pondered these simple words, and eyed her askant, carrying the
child with perfect ease. When they had gone nearly a mile he said with
considerable surprise, "You thought it was but two butts' length."

"Not I."

"Why, you said so."

"That is another matter." She then turned on him the face of a Madonna.
"I lied," said she sweetly. "And to save your soul and body, I'd maybe
tell a worse lie than that, at need. I am but a woman, Ah, well, it is
but two butts' length from here at any rate."

"Without a lie?"

"Humph! Three, without a lie."

And sure enough, in a few minutes they came up to the manse.

A candle was burning in the vicar's parlour. "She is waking still,"
whispered Margaret.

"Beautiful! beautiful!" said Clement, and stopped to look at it.

"What, in Heaven's name?"

"That little candle, seen through the window at night. Look an it be
not like some fair star of size prodigious: it delighteth the eyes, and
warmeth the heart of those outside."

"Come, and I'll show thee something better," said Margaret, and led him
on tiptoe to the window.

They looked in, and there was Catherine kneeling on the hassock, with
her "hours" before her.

"Folk can pray out of a cave," whispered Margaret. "Ay and hit heaven
with their prayers; for 'tis for a sight of thee she prayeth, and thou
art here. Now, Gerard, be prepared; she is not the woman you knew her;
her children's troubles have greatly broken the brisk, light-hearted
soul. And I see she has been weeping e'en now; s