"For she did love him, Belasez; and a bitter grief and disgrace it was to all her friends. Of course I need not say that the idea of a marriage between them was an odious impossibility. The only resource was to take Anegay away from Lincoln, where she would learn to forget all about the creeping creatures, and return to her duty as a servant of the Living and Eternal One. It was at that time that I and thy father were wedded; and we then came to live in Norwich, bringing Anegay with us." Licorice paused, as if her tale were finished. It sounded specious: but how much of it was true? "And did she forget him, Mother?" "Of course she did, Belasez. It was her duty." Belasez privately thought that people did not always do their duty, and that such a duty as this would be extremely hard to do. "Was she ever married, Mother, if you please?" "She married a young Jew, my dear, named Aaron the son of Leo, and died soon after the birth of her first child," said Licorice, glibly. "And was she really happy, Mother?" "Happy! Of course she was. She had no business to be any thing else." Belasez was silent, but not in the least convinced. "Thou seest now, my Belasez, why I was so much afraid of thy visits to Bury. I well know thou art a discreet maiden, and entirely to be trusted so far as thine ability goes: but what can such qualities avail thee against magic? I have heard of a grand-aunt of mine, whom a Christian by this means glued to the settle, and for three years she could not rise from it, until the wicked spell was dissolved. I do not mistrust thee, good daughter: I do but warn thee." And Licorice rose with a manner which indicated the termination of the interview, apparently thinking it better to reserve the religious question for another time. "May I ask one other question, Mother?--what became of the maiden Beatrice and her brother?" Licorice's eyes twinkled again. Belasez listened for the answer on the principle of the Irishman who looked at the guide-post to see where the road did not lead. "The squire was killed fighting the Saracens, I believe. I do not know what became of the maiden." Licorice disappeared. "The squire was not killed, I am sure," said Belasez to herself. "It is Father Bruno." Left alone, Belasez reviewed her very doubtful information. Anegay was not her sister, and probably not her aunt. That she had loved Bruno was sure to be true; and that she had been forcibly separated from him was only too likely. But her subsequent marriage to Aaron, and the very existence of Beatrice, were in Belasez's eyes purely fictitious details, introduced to make the events dovetail nicely. Why she doubted the latter point she could hardly have told. It was really due to that gleam in her mother's eyes, which she invariably put on when she was launching out rather more boldly than usual into the sea of fiction. Yet there seemed no reason for the invention of Beatrice, if she were not a real person.