"The Lord will have a care of my future. I lack but a cake and a cruse of water, and He can send them by His angels when my need asketh them of Him."
"Verily: a man may reasonably pack his own needs in small compass. But dost thou mean to remain single all thy life, Lawrence? My Lady Madison may scarce be as content as thou with the cruse and the cake, and in all cases, two lack more provision than one."
Mr. Robesart had dropped almost unconsciously into the familiar thou, always used to the little Lawrence of old. His hearer liked it far better than the ceremonious you, which he had taken up since Lawrence became a man.
"I think that is not in my future," was the low-voiced answer.
"Be not too sure," said the priest. "Some of our Father's best gifts are they which we count too good to look for. Yet soothly, Lawrence, I would not wish thee a wife like—like some women be."
Lawrence leaned forward with a glow in his eyes, and spoke in a whisper.
"Wala wa! Father, it lieth sore and heavy at mine heart that the friends he had to mourn him have been only the men and women of his meynie. The one whom he loved better than all the world hath not shed one true tear for his loss!"
"My son!" said Mr. Robesart tenderly,—with a tenderness which was not all for Lawrence,—"he hath seen the Face of God, and he is satisfied with it."
"We loved him dear enough, at least," said Lawrence in a choked voice.
"Lawrence, canst thou not forgive her?—and that man that shot the arrow, hast thou forgiven him? Dost thou know who it was?"