“But that is a good work, surely,” smiled the other.  “It will be surely a safeguard against surfeiting and drunkenness.”

Sir James rose instantly.

“Come, father,” he said to the staring monk, “you will be tired out, and will want your bed.”

A slow smile shone and laded on his wife’s face as she rose and rustled down the long hall.

* * * * *

Such incidents as this made life at Overfield very difficult for them all; it was hard for these sore hearts to be continually on the watch for dangerous subjects, and only to be able to comfort one another when the mistress of the house was absent; but above all it was difficult for Margaret.  She was nearly as silent as her mother, but infinitely more tender; and since the two were naturally together for the most part, except when the nun was at her long prayers, there were often very difficult and painful incidents.

For the first eighteen months after her return her mother let her alone; but as time went on and the girl’s resolution persevered, she began to be subjected to a distressing form of slight persecution.

For example:  Chris and his father came in one day in the autumn from a walk through the priory garden that lay beyond the western moat.  As they passed in the level sunshine along the prim box-lined paths, and had reached the centre where the dial stood, they heard voices in the summer-house that stood on the right behind a yew hedge.

Sir James hesitated a moment; and as he waited heard Margaret’s voice with a thrill of passion in it.

“I cannot listen to that, mother.  It is wicked to say such things.”

The two turned instantly, passed along the path and came round the corner.

Margaret was standing with one hand on the little table, half-turned to go.  Her eyes were alight with indignation, and her lips trembled.  Her mother sat on the other side, her silver-handled stick beside her, and her hands folded serenely together.

Sir James looked from one to the other; and there fell a silence.

“Are you coming with us, Margaret?” he said.

The girl still hesitated a moment, glancing at her mother, and then stepped out of the summer-house.  Chris saw that bitter smile writhe and die on the elder woman’s face, but she said nothing.

Margaret burst out presently when they had crossed the moat and were coming up to the long grey-towered house.

“I cannot bear such talk, father,” she said, with her eyes bright with angry tears, “she was saying such things about Rusper, and how idle we all were there, and how foolish.”

“You must not mind it, my darling.  Your mother does not—­does not understand.”

“There was never any one like Mother Abbess,” went on the girl.  “I never saw her idle or out of humour; and—­and we were all so busy and happy.”

Her eyes overflowed a moment; her father put his arm tenderly round her shoulders, and they went in together.