“How died she?”
“Lady, I dare not answer,—I must not. You weary yourself to no good.”
“But I will know,” said Philippa, doggedly.
“Not from me, Lady,” answered the lavender with equal determination.
“What does it all mean?” moaned poor Philippa to her baffled self. “Look here, Agnes. Hast thou ever seen this bracelet?”
“Ay, Lady. The Lady Alianora never deigns to speak to such as we poor lavenders be, but she did not think it would soil her lips to comfort us when our hearts were sad. I have seen her wear that jewel.”
A terrible fancy all at once occurred to Philippa.
“Agnes, was she an evil woman, that thou wilt not speak of her?”
The lavender’s heart was reached, and her tongue loosed.
“No, no, Lady, no!” she cried, with a fervour of which Philippa had not imagined her capable. “The snow was no whiter than her life, the honey no sweeter than her soul!”