And now the little fellow had got over the first shock, he found that “Grisly,” as he still called her, but only as an affectionate abbreviation, was the only person who could relieve his pain, or amuse him, in the whole castle; and he was incessantly hanging on her. She must put him to bed and sing lullabies to him, she must rub his limbs when they ached with rheumatic pains; hers was the only hand which might touch the sores that continually broke out, and he would sit for long spaces on her lap, sometimes stroking down the scar and pitying it with “Poor Grisly; when I am a man, I will throw down my glove, and fight with that lad, and kill him.” “O nay, nay, Bernard; he never meant to do me evil. He is a fair, brave, good boy.” “He scorned and ran away from you. He is mansworn and recreant,” persisted Bernard. “Rob and I will make him say that you are the fairest of ladies.” “O nay, nay. That he could not.” “But you are, you are—on this side—mine own Grisly,” cried Bernard, whose experiences of fair ladies had not been extensive, and who curled himself on her lap, giving unspeakable rest and joy to her weary, yearning spirit, as she pressed him to her breast. “Now, a story, a story,” he entreated, and she was rich in tales from Scripture history and legends of the Saints, or she would sing her sweet monastic hymns and chants, as he nestled in her lap. The mother had fits of jealousy at the exclusive preference, and now and then would rail at Grisell for cosseting the bairn and keeping him a helpless baby; or at Bernard for leaving his mother for this ill-favoured, useless sister, and would even snatch away the boy, and declare that she wanted no one to deal with him save herself; but Bernard had a will of his own, and screamed for his Grisly, throwing himself about in such a manner that Lady Whitburn was forced to submit, and quite to the alarm of her daughter, on one of these occasions she actually burst into a flood of tears, sobbing loud and without restraint. Indeed, though she hotly declared that she ailed nothing, there was a lassitude about her that made it a relief to have the care of Bernard taken off her hands; and the Baron’s grumbling at disturbed nights made the removal of Bernard’s bed to his sister’s room generally acceptable. Once, when Grisell was found to have taught both him and Thora the English version of the Lord’s Prayer and Creed, and moreover to be telling him the story of the Gospel, there came, no one knew from where, an accusation which made her father tramp up and say, “Mark you, wench, I’ll have no Lollards here.” “Lollards, sir; I never saw a Lollard!” said Grisell trembling. “Where, then, didst learn all this, making holy things common?” “We all learnt it at Wilton, sir, from the reverend mothers and the holy father.” The Baron was fairly satisfied, and muttered that if the bairn was fit only for a shaveling, it might be all right.