The winter passed quietly away, and Isel was—for her—well pleased with her new departure. The priest, having once satisfied himself that the foreign visitors were nominal Christians, and gave no scandal to their neighbours, ceased to trouble himself about them. Anania continued to make disagreeable remarks at times, but gradually even she became more callous on the question, and nobody else ever said any thing.
“I do wonder if Father Vincent have given her a word or two,” said Isel. “She hasn’t took much of it, if he have. If she isn’t at me for one thing, she’s at me for another. If it were to please the saints to make Osbert the Lord King’s door-keeper, so as he’d go and live at London or Windsor, I shouldn’t wonder if I could get over it!”
“Ah, ‘the tongue can no man tame,’” observed Gerhardt with a smile.
“I don’t so much object to tongues when they’ve been in salt,” said Isel. “It’s fresh I don’t like ’em, and with a live temper behind of ’em. They don’t agree with me then.”
“It is the live temper behind, or rather the evil heart, which is the thing to blame. ‘Out of the heart proceed evil thoughts,’ which grow into evil words and deeds. Set the heart right, and the tongue will soon follow.”
“I reckon that’s a bit above either you or me,” replied Isel with a sigh.
“A man’s thoughts are his own,” interposed Haimet rather warmly. “Nobody has a right to curb them.”
“No man can curb them,” said Gerhardt, “unless the thinker put a curb on himself. He that can rule his own thoughts is king of himself: he that never attempts it is ‘a reed driven with the wind and tossed.’”
“Oh, there you fly too high for me,” said Haimet. “If my acts and words are inoffensive, I have a right to my thoughts.”
“Has any man a right to evil thoughts?” asked Gerhardt.