“Then Agnes hath not even seen him?”

“Yes, at different times I have bid her regard him, and said to her, ’There goes a proper man and a good Christian,—­a man who minds his work and is obedient to his old mother:  such a man will make a right good husband for some girl some day.’”

“And did you ever see that her eye followed him with pleasure?”

“No, neither him nor any other man, for my little Agnes hath no thought of that kind; but, once married, she will like him fast enough.  All I want is to have you begin the subject, and get it into her head a little.”

Father Antonio was puzzled how to meet this direct urgency of his sister.  He could not explain to her his own private reasons for believing that any such attempt would be utterly vain, and only bring needless distress on his little favorite.  He therefore answered,—­

“My good sister, all such thoughts lie so far out of the sphere of us monks, that you could not choose a worse person for such an errand.  I have never had any communings with the child than touching the beautiful things of my art, and concerning hymns and prayers and the lovely world of saints and angels, where they neither marry nor are given in marriage; and so I should only spoil your enterprise, if I should put my unskilful hand to it.”

“At any rate,” said Elsie, “don’t you approve of my plan?”

“I should approve of anything that would make our dear little one safe and happy, but I would not force the matter against her inclinations.  You will always regret it, if you make so good a child shed one needless tear.  After all, sister, what need of haste?  ’Tis a young bird yet.  Why push it out of the nest?  When once it is gone, you will never get it back.  Let the pretty one have her little day to play and sing and be happy.  Does she not make this garden a sort of Paradise with her little ways and her sweet words?  Now, my sister, these all belong to you; but, once she is given to another, there is no saying what may come.  One thing only may you count on with certainty:  that these dear days, when she is all day by your side and sleeps in your bosom all night, are over,—­she will belong to you no more, but to a strange man who hath neither toiled nor wrought for her, and all her pretty ways and dutiful thoughts must be for him.”

“I know it, I know it,” said Elsie, with a sudden wrench of that jealous love which is ever natural to strong, passionate natures.  “I’m sure it isn’t for my own sake I urge this.  I grudge him the girl.  After all, he is but a stupid head.  What has he ever done, that such good-fortune should befall him?  He ought to fall down and kiss the dust of my shoes for such a gift, and I doubt me much if he will ever think to do it.  These men think nothing too good for them.  I believe, if one of the crowned saints in heaven were offered them to wife, they would think it all quite natural, and not a whit less than their requirings.”