even loathing," answered Isabel,
quickly.

It was at this turn in the conversation that the noiseless step
of Richard himself neared the spot, and hearing his own name thus
discourteously treated, he paused, screened from their eyes by the
bastion in the angle.

"Nay, nay, sister," said Anne; "what is there in Richard that misbeseems
his princely birth?"

"I know not, but there is no youth in his eye and in his heart. Even
as a child he had the hard will and the cold craft of gray hairs. Pray
Saint Mary you give me not Gloucester for a brother!"

Anne sighed and smiled. "Ah, no," she said, after a short pause, "when
thou art Princess of Clarence may I--"

"May thou what?"

"Pray for thee and thine in the house of God! Ah, thou knowest not,
sweet Isabel, how often at morn and even mine eyes and heart turn to the
spires of yonder convent!" She rose as she said this, her lip quivered,
and she moved on in the opposite direction to that in which Richard
stood, still unseen, and no longer within his hearing. Isabel rose also,
and hastening after her, threw her arms round Anne's neck, and kissed
away the tears that stood in those meek eyes.

"My sister, my Anne! Ah, trust in me, thou hast some secret, I know it
well,--I have long seen it. Is it possible that thou canst have placed
thy heart, thy pure love--Thou blushest! Ah, Anne! Anne! thou canst not
have loved beneath thee?"

"Nay," said Anne, with a spark of her ancestral fire lighting her meek
eyes through its tears, "not beneath me, but above. What do I say!
Isabel, ask me no more. Enough that it is a folly, a dream, and that I
could smile with pity at myself to think from what light causes love and
grief can spring."

"Above thee!" repeated Isabel, in amaze; "and who in England is above
the daughter of Earl Warwick? Not Richard of Gloucester? If so, pardon
my foolish tongue."

"No, not Richard,--though I feel kindly towards him, and his sweet voice
soothes me when I listen,--not Richard. Ask no more."

"Oh, Anne, speak, speak!--we are not both so wretched? Thou lovest not
Clarence? It is--it must be!"

"Canst thou think me so false and treacherous,--a heart pledged to thee?
Clarence! Oh, no!"

"But who then--who then?" said Isabel, still suspiciously. "Nay, if thou
wilt not speak, blame thyself if I must still wrong thee."

Thus appealed to, and wounded to the quick by Isabel's tone and eye,
Anne at last with a strong effort suppressed her tears, and,