The morning rites of devotion and the simple repast being over, Elsie prepared to go to her business.  It had occurred to her that the visit of her brother was an admirable pretext for withdrawing Agnes from the scene of her daily traffic, and of course, as she fondly supposed, keeping her from the sight of the suspected admirer.

Neither Agnes nor the monk had disturbed her serenity by recounting the adventure of the evening before.  Agnes had been silent from the habitual reserve which a difference of nature ever placed between her and her grandmother,—­a difference which made confidence on her side an utter impossibility.  There are natures which ever must be silent to other natures, because there is no common language between them.  In the same house, at the same board, sharing the same pillow even, are those forever strangers and foreigners whose whole stock of intercourse is limited to a few brief phrases on the commonest material wants of life, and who, as soon as they try to go farther, have no words that are mutually understood.

“Agnes,” said her grandmother, “I shall not need you at the stand to-day.  There is that new flax to be spun, and you may keep company with your uncle.  I’ll warrant me, you’ll be glad enough of that!”

“Certainly I shall,” said Agnes, cheerfully.  “Uncle’s comings are my holidays.”

“I will show you somewhat further on my Breviary,” said the monk.  “Praised be God, many new ideas sprang up in my mind last night, and seemed to shoot forth in blossoms.  Even my dreams have often been made fruitful in this divine work.”

“Many a good thought comes in dreams,” said Elsie; “but, for my part, I work too hard and sleep too sound to get much that way.”

“Well, brother,” said Elsie, after breakfast, “you must look well after Agnes to-day; for there be plenty of wolves go round, hunting these little lambs.”

“Have no fear, sister,” said the monk, tranquilly; “the angels have her in charge.  If our eyes were only clear-sighted, we should see that Christ’s little ones are never alone.”

“All that is fine talk, brother; but I never found that the angels attended to any of my affairs, unless I looked after them pretty sharp myself; and as for girls, the dear Lord knows they need a legion apiece to look after them.  What with roystering fellows and smooth-tongued gallants, and with silly, empty-headed hussies like that Giulietta, one has much ado to keep the best of them straight.  Agnes is one of the best, too,—­a well-brought up, pious, obedient girl, and industrious as a bee.  Happy is the husband who gets her.  I would I knew a man good enough for her.”

This conversation took place while Agnes was in the garden picking oranges and lemons, and filling the basket which her grandmother was to take to the town.  The silver ripple of a hymn that she was singing came through the open door; it was part of a sacred ballad in honor of Saint Agnes:—­