“I do not fully understand you,” returned Philippa.
“You look weary, Lady,” said the monk, changing his tone.
“I am weary,” she answered; “wearier than you—in one sense.”
“Ay, wearier than I,” he replied; “for I have been to the Well, and have found rest.”
“Are you a priest?” asked Philippa suddenly.
The monk nodded.
“Then come in hither and rest, and let me confess to you. I fancy you might tell me what would help me.”
The monk silently obeyed, and followed her to the house. An hour later he sat in Philippa’s bower, and she knelt before him.
“Father,” she said, at the close of her tale, “I have never known rest nor love. All my life I have been a lonely, neglected woman. Is there any balm-tree by your Well for such wounds as mine?—any healing virtue in its waters that could comfort me?”
“Have you never injured or neglected any, daughter?” asked the monk quietly.