“Ah!”
“And—and——”
“What is it, Isabel?”
“And—to receive me into the Church to-night.”
The brother and sister walked up and down that soft spring evening after supper, on the yew-walk; with the whispers and caresses of the scented breeze about them, the shy dewy eyes of the stars looking down at them between the tall spires of the evergreens overhead; and in their hearts the joy of lovers on a wedding-night.
Anthony had soon told the tale of James Maxwell and Isabel had nearly knelt to ask her brother’s pardon for having ever allowed even the shadow of a suspicion to darken her heart. Lady Maxwell, too, who had come down with her sister to see Isabel about some small arrangement, was told; and she too had been nearly overwhelmed with the joy of knowing that the lad was innocent, and the grief of having dreamed he could be otherwise, and at the wholly unexpected news of his conversion; but she had gone at last back to the Hall to make all ready for the double ceremony of that night, and the Paschal Feast on the next day. Mistress Margaret was in Isabel’s room, moving about with a candle, and every time that the two reached the turn at the top of the steps they saw her light glimmering.
Then Anthony, as they walked under the stars, told Isabel of his great hope that he, too, one day would be a priest, and serve God and his countrymen that way.
“Oh, Anthony,” she whispered, and clung to that dear arm that held her own; terrified for the moment at the memory of what had been the price of priesthood to James Maxwell.
“And where shall you be trained for it?” she asked.