he,
not He, which lacked it then. And He let her kiss His feet. O Christ
Jesu! if in very deed it were in love for us that Thou barest death on
the bitter rood, hast Thou no love left to welcome the dying sinner?
Thou who didst pity her at yonder feast, hast Thou no mercy for Eleanor
Gerard too?"

The words were spoken only half aloud, but they were heard by the child
cradled in her arms.

"Mother, why christened you me not Eleanor?" she asked dreamily.

"Hush, child, and go to sleep!" answered the mother, startled out of her
reverie.

Maude was silent, and Eleanor wrapped her closer in the old cloak which
enfolded both of them. But before the woman yielded herself up to the
stupor which was benumbing her faculties, she passed her hand into her
bosom, and drew out a little flat parcel, folded in linen, which she
secreted in the breast of the child's dress.

"Keep this, Maude," she said gravely.

"What is it, Mother?" was Maude's sleepy answer.

"It is what thou shalt find it hereafter," was the mysterious rejoinder.
"But let none take it away, neither beguile thee thereof. 'Tis all I
have to give thee."

Maude seemed too nearly asleep for her curiosity to be roused; and
Eleanor, leaning back against the tree, resigned herself to slumber
also.

Not long afterwards, a goatherd passing that way in search of a strayed
kid, came on the unconscious pair, wrapped in each other's arms. He ran
for help to his hut, and had them conveyed to a convent at a little
distance, which the wanderers had failed to find. The rescue was just
in time to bring the life back to the numbed limbs of the child. But
for the mother there was no waking in this world. Eleanor Gerard had
met God.

Four years after that winter evening, in the guest-chamber of the
Convent of Sopwell sat a nun of middle age and cheerful look, in
conversation with a woman in ordinary costume, but to whom the same
description would very nearly apply.

"Then what were the manner of maid you seek, good Ursula?" inquired the
nun.

"By Saint Luke's face, holy Sister, but I would not have her too cunning
[clever]. I count (though I say it that need not) I am none ill one to
learn her her work; and me loveth not to be checked ne taunted of mine
underlings."

The nun, who had known Ursula Drew for some time, was quite aware that
superfluity of meekness did not rank among that worthy woman's failings.

"I would fain have a small maid of some twelve or t