"In the year of grace 1519," said the countess, "just six years after the death of the good King James, whose munificence founded it—woe's me!"
"And why doth this prioress not embroider her own books? How, i' the devil's name, do they spend the long dull day in yonder convent; for I vow 'tis a fortress all walled round like the city of Lisle—and I suppose the fair sisters are never beyond it."
"Save when sickness or sorrow, want or misery, call them into the world; for they are of inestimable service to the poor. Ah! had you seen them in time of the plague. The Prioress Josina—thou rememberest the beautiful Josina Henrison, who with me was a damoiselle of honour to madam the Duchess Anne of Albany? Ah! she is a very angel of goodness. Now, do not look in that way, as if you were just about to laugh at me?"
"Who—I? Mass! I would almost have fallen sick on purpose, to have had such a nurse as the pretty Josina—had I not——"
"What, sir?"
"Loved thee, and consequently been sure of another."
"'Tis well you say so," replied Jane, playfully, pinching his ear. "Ah! my mother is watching us!"
"God bless ye, bairns!" said the old countess, kindly and fondly; "for ye were born under the same star, ilk being destined for the other."
"Pax Domini sit semper voliscum," said Father St. Bernard, with closed eyes, and waving his right hand towards them.
"Plague take thy Latin," muttered the earl.