And Agnes went about her morning devotions with fervent zeal, and did not see the monk as he dropped the pencil, and, covering his face with his robe, seemed to wrestle in some agony of prayer.

“Shepherd of Israel,” he said, “why hast Thou forgotten this vine of Thy planting?  The boar out of the wood doth waste it, the wild beast of the field doth devour it.  Dogs have encompassed Thy beloved; the assembly of the violent have surrounded him.  How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost Thou not judge and avenge?”

“Now, really, brother,” said Elsie, coming towards him, and interrupting his meditations in her bustling, business way, yet speaking in a low tone that Agnes should not hear,—­“I want you to help me with this child in a good common-sense fashion:  none of your high-flying notions about saints and angels, but a little good common talk for every-day people that have their bread and salt to look after.  The fact is, brother, this girl must be married.  I went last night to talk with Antonio’s mother, and the way is all open as well as any living girl could desire.  Antonio is a trifle slow, and the high-flying hussies call him stupid; but his mother says a better son never breathed, and he is as obedient to all her orders now as when he was three years old.  And she has laid up plenty of household stuff for him, and good hard gold pieces to boot:  she let me count them myself, and I showed her that which I had scraped together, and she counted it, and we agreed that the children that come of such a marriage would come into the world with something to stand on.  Now Agnes is fond of you, brother, and perhaps it would be well for you to broach the subject.  The fact is, when I begin to talk, she gets her arms round my old neck and falls to weeping and kissing me at such a rate as makes a fool of me.  If the child would only be rebellious, one could do something; but this love takes all the stiffness out of one’s joints; and she tells me she never wants a husband, and she will be content to live with me all her life.  The saints know it isn’t for my happiness to put her out of my old arms; but I can’t last forever,—­my old back grows weaker every year; and Antonio has strong arms to defend her from all these roystering fellows who fear neither God nor man, and swoop up young maids as kites do chickens.  And then he is as gentle and manageable as a this-year ox; Agnes can lead him by the horn,—­she will be a perfect queen over him; for he has been brought up to mind the women.”

“Well, sister,” said the monk, “hath our little maid any acquaintance with this man?  Have they ever spoken together?”

“Not much.  I have never brought them to a very close acquaintance; and that is what is to be done.  Antonio is not much of a talker; to tell the truth, he does not know as much to say as our Agnes:  but the man’s place is not to say fine things, but to do the hard work that shall support the household.”