"I don't see that I can do anything about it now, only to make it an occasion of humility," says Amice.
"I don't think you can do anything better with it than to let it alone and think about something else," says I, and so the matter ended.
[CHAPTER III.]
Feast of St. Agnes, April 20.
A YEAR ago at this time I was at home, busily preparing flowers and wreaths for my sister's bridal, under dear mother's eye. I knew Alice wanted violets, and Dick and I went to search for them in the coombe, where the banks being shady, the violets do longest linger. When we had filled our baskets with the flowers, which we found in abundance, both white and blue, we sat down a little on the moss to listen to the singing of the birds and the lapse of the water. These gentle sounds, albeit most sweet and tender, did somewhat dispose us to silence, if not melancholy. Presently Richard said:
"I wonder where we shall be a year from now, Rosamond? You know this same spring used to be a favorite haunt of the Fair Dame of Stanton, my ancestress. They say she used to see in the bosom of the water, as in a mirror, all that was to come to pass."
"I can tell pretty well where we shall be a year from now, without any of the Fair Dame's art," said I. "You know she was said to be a heretic, if not worse."
"Yes, but I don't believe it!" answered Dick, valiantly. "I believe she was a good woman, and a good wife. But since you know so well, tell me where we shall be?"