“‘When they persecute you,’” repeated Ermine. “It has not come yet.”
“It may be too late, when it has come.”
“Then the way will be plain before me.”
“Well, dear, I will urge you no further,” said Gerhardt at last, drawing a heavy sigh. “I had hoped that for thee at least—The will of the Lord be done.”
“If it were His will to preserve my life, even the persecutors themselves might be made the occasion of doing so.”
“True, my Ermine. It may be thou hast more faith than I. Be it as thou wilt.”
So Derette had to seek another maid.
“I’m sure I don’t know who you’ll get,” said Isel. “There’s Franna’s Hawise, but she’s a bit of a temper,”—which her hearers knew to be a very mild representation of facts: “and there’s Turguia’s grand-daughter, Canda, but you’ll have to throw a bucket of water over her of a morrow, or she’ll never be out of bed before sunrise on the shortest day of the year. Then there’s Henry’s niece, Joan—” then pronounced as a dissyllable, Joan—“but I wouldn’t have such a sloven about me. I never see her but her shoes are down at heel, and if her gown isn’t rent for a couple of hand-breadths, it’s as much as you can look for. Deary me, these girls! they’re a sorry lot, the whole heap of ’em! I don’t know where you’re going to find one, Derette.”
“Put it in the Lord’s hands, and He will find you one.”
“I’ll tell you what, Gerard, I never heard the like of you,” answered Isel, setting her pan swinging by its chain on the hook over the fire. “You begin and end every mortal thing with our Lord, and you’re saying your prayers pretty nigh all day long. Are you certain sure you’ve never been a monk?”