In front of the maidens stood a square tower, part of the defences of the religious establishment, erected by Abbot Lyndelay, in the reign of Edward III., but disused and decaying.  It was sustained by high and richly groined arches, crossing the swift mill-race, and faced the river.  A path led through the ruined chapter-house to the spacious cloister quadrangle, once used as a cemetery for the monks, but now converted into a kitchen garden, its broad area being planted out, and fruit-trees trained against the hoary walls.  Little of the old refectory was left, except the dilapidated stairs once conducting to the gallery where the brethren were wont to take their meals, but the inner wall still served to enclose the garden on that side.  Of the dormitory, formerly constituting the eastern angle of the cloisters, the shell was still left, and it was used partly as a grange, partly as a shed for cattle, the farm-yard and tenements lying on this side.

Thus it will be seen that the garden and grounds, filling up the ruins of Whalley Abbey, offered abundant points of picturesque attraction, all of which—­with the exception of the ruined conventual church—­had been visited by the two girls.  They had tracked the labyrinths of passages, scaled the broken staircases, crept into the roofless and neglected chambers, peered timorously into the black and yawning vaults, and now, having finished their investigations, had paused for awhile, previous to extending their ramble to the church, beneath the wild cherry-tree to listen to the warbling of the birds.

“You should hear the nightingales at Middleton, Alizon,” observed Dorothy Assheton, breaking silence; “they sing even more exquisitely than yon thrush.  You must come and see me.  I should like to show you the old house and gardens, though they are very different from these, and we have no ancient monastic ruins to ornament them.  Still, they are very beautiful; and, as I find you are fond of flowers, I will show you some I have reared myself, for I am something of a gardener, Alizon.  Promise you will come.”

“I wish I dared promise it,” replied Alizon.

“And why not, then?” cried Dorothy.  “What should prevent you?  Do you know, Alizon, what I should like better than all?  You are so amiable, and so good, and so—­so very pretty; nay, don’t blush—­there is no one by to hear me—­you are so charming altogether, that I should like you to come and live with me.  You shall be my handmaiden if you will.”

“I should desire nothing better, sweet young lady,” replied Alizon; “but—­”

“But what?” cried Dorothy.  “You have only your own consent to obtain.”

“Alas!  I have,” replied Alizon.

“How can that be!” cried Dorothy, with a disappointed look.  “It is not likely your mother will stand in the way of your advancement, and you have not, I suppose, any other tie?  Nay, forgive me if I appear too inquisitive.  My curiosity only proceeds from the interest I take in you.”