“She used to say One did love us,” said Agnes in a low voice; “even He that died on the rood. I would I could mind what she told us; but it is long, long ago; and mine heart is hard, and my remembrance dim. Yet I do mind that last time she spake, only the very day before—never mind what. But that which came after stamped it on mine heart for ever. It was the last time I heard her voice; and I knew—we all knew—what was coming, though she did not. It was about water she spake, and he that drank should thirst again; and there was another well some whither, whereof he that should drink should never thirst. And He that died on the rood would give us that better water, if we asked Him.”
“But how shall I get at Him to ask Him?” cried Philippa.
“She said He could hear, if we asked,” replied the lavender.
“Who said?”
“She—that you wot of. Our Lady that used to be.”
“My mother?”
Agnes nodded. “And the water that He should give should bring life and peace. It was a sweet story and a fair, as she told it. But there never was a voice like hers—never.”
Philippa rose, and opened her cherished bracelet. She could guess what that bracelet had been. The ornament was less common in the Middle Ages than in the periods which preceded and followed them; and it was usually a love-token. But where was the love which had given and received this? Was it broken, too, like the bracelet?
She read the device to Agnes.
“It was something like that,” said Agnes. “But she read the story touching it, out of a book.”