Happily I was not unprovided with suitable refreshment to offer my little guest. A scrap of sponge cake in a wine glass, saved from last night's dinner, met with his entire approval. It had been intended for Mouse, but as at the last moment she could not be found, so Bill was in luck. I sprinkled some crumbs about the chest, and on my writing-table, and he hopped about puffing himself out, quite unabashed, and partook freely of the breakfast I offered him. I did not move as I watched him, but remained standing stock-still. I have always found one of the great secrets of bird taming is to keep immovable, till all sense of fear is lost by constant familiarity. How beautiful he was, with his great hazel eyes, and his scarlet waistcoat beneath his sober hood. He chirped loudly as he ate, and then flew joyfully from table to bed, and from bed to table, and so at last back to the window-sill, uttering at moments his clear bell-like cry. Whilst I was engaged in watching my little feathered friend, I heard the click of the latch of my door, and Bess entered bearing in her arms the nursery cat Grey Smokey. "Oh, beware!" I cried alarmed. "Billy Fire-Dew is here." In an instant Bess had opened the door again and evicted her favourite, but not without noise; and Bill had caught fright, and with a loud shrill cry, had flown into the garden. Then, outside the door, Smokey began to mew piteously. "Let her in," I said, "she can do no harm now. Bill is quite safe." So the puss entered, and although habitually the gentlest of creatures, I saw that the instinct of an animal of prey was strong within her. For Smokey paced up and down my room; her eyes shone like topazes in the sunlight, and as she walked, she lashed her tail like a lioness at the Zoo. "She'd kill poor Bill if she could get him," I said. "Yes," answered Bess, "and eat him up, without pepper and salt. Cats are never really kind, not right through, for all their purring." Then Bess asked me what I meant to do, now that I was well again. "Papa," she said, "told me that I might go sledging some day; but this morning you must take me and show me where St. Milburgha was buried, and tell me also about the old monks. Do you know, mama, I often think of the monks in bed. Last night--I don't remember all, but there was something that happened with a man in a black gown, and Hals did something as a swan--I rather disremember," continued my little maid, with _naïveté_, "for I fell asleep before I could rightly recollect. But Burbidge perhaps will tell me; he knows a lot about monks. It is fine, as Nana says, to be such a scholard." "Ah! now I remember," said Bess, after a pause. "Burbidge declares that they walled up Christians, the monks, and drank out of golden cups, and hunted the deer." I was amused at Burbidge's views--they were obviously those of the very primitive Protestant. "Come into the garden this morning, child, and I will tell you a little about the monks."