"I have sometimes thought," said Jack slyly, "that if Madam Barbara were not a nun—"
"That you might have a step-dame some of these fine days, you rogue," returned his father, laughing. "What would you say to that?"
"I should rejoice heartily," said Jack eagerly; "for I am sure she would make a good wife, and I love her dearly already. Besides, I should be pleased with anything which made you happy."
"Well, well! There is no question of that matter now," said his father, who was obviously not displeased with the idea. "We must not forget that madam is a born lady, though she condescends so kindly to become one of ourselves. But the question is now not of marriage, but of saving from hanging."
"I will talk to Father William about the matter," said Jack. "I will go to him this very evening. Dear father, I am so glad I have told you all, and that you are not angry with me."
"I could not be angry, son Jack, though I do not deny that I am greatly grieved. I would fain spend the remnant of my days in peace. Not but I would gladly see the Church reformed, and especially some order taken with all these lazy monks and begging friars, who eat honest, industrious folks out of house and home, and carry off silly girls to convents; but I fear your friends are too sweeping. I cannot bring myself to believe that so much we have been taught to receive as Gospel truth is no more than men's invention."
"Only read for yourself, father, and you will see."
"Well, well, perhaps I may, if only to put my head in the same halter with yours. One word more, Jack, because we may have company home and no chance to speak further. How much of all this does Anne know?"
Jack repeated to his father what the reader has heard already.
"I cannot think that Anne would betray me, for all she says," he added.