“And what work did thy father?”
Maude looked up with a troubled air, as if the idea of that relative’s possible existence had never suggested itself to her.
“I never had any father!” she said, in a pained tone. “Cousin Hawise had a father, and he wrought iron on the anvil. But I had none—never! I had a mother—that was all.”
“And what called men thy mother?”
“Eleanor Gerard.”
“Then thy name is Maude Gerard,” said Oliva, sharply.
Maude’s silence appeared to indicate that she declined to commit herself either affirmatively or negatively.
“And what canst do, maid?” inquired Ursula, changing the subject to one of more practical purport.
Perhaps the topic was too large for reply, for Maude’s only response was a nervous twisting of her fingers. Sister Oliva answered for her.
“Marry, she can pluck a chick, and roll pastry, and use a bedstaff, and scour a floor, and sew, and the like. She hath not been idle, I warrant you.”