"Truth, truth!" said she, a little petulantly "truth and duty, and right and wrong, I wish those cold words were not so often on your lips. There are others so much warmer and more beautiful--nobleness and generosity, and loyalty and devotion, those are the things I love. Yours is a world of daylight, Olive. I like sunshine, glowing morning and evening like rubies and opals, veiling the distance at noon with its own glorious haze. I hate always to see everything exactly as it is, even beautiful things; and ugly things I never will see, if I can help it." "I love to see everything exactly as it is," said I; "I want, and I pray, to see everything as it is. And in the end I am sure that is the way to see the real beauty of everything in the world. For God has made it, and not the devil. And therefore we need never be afraid to look into things. And I shall always think truth and duty the most beautiful words in the world." "Very pretty!" said she perversely, "and under all those beautiful words you bury the fact that you will never forgive poor Sir Launcelot." "I have long forgiven him," said I; "but I cannot think him good, if I tried for ever, until he is. I cannot help thinking of poor little Cicely, Gammer Grindle's grandchild, wandering lost in London." "Hush, Olive, hush," said she passionately, "that is ungenerous and unkind. I will not listen to village gossip. My Mother says we must not be harsh in judging those whose temptations we cannot estimate. But she means to do all she can in London to help poor Cicely." "Oh, Lettice," said I, "it is not a question of more or less pity, but of who needs our pity most." "You are all alike," she rejoined; "yet I love you all, and I love you, Olive, dearly. Without your Puritan training, Olive, you and Roger would have been the best people and the pleasantest in the world; but as my Mother says, all these severe doctrines about law, and justice, and conscience, do make people harsh in judging others, and bitter in resenting wrong." I could say no more. She had taken refuge under the shadow of Roger's hasty act, and the argument was closed. When we reached Davenant Hall an unusual crowd was gathered at the front door--a silent eager throng--around a horseman whose horse was covered with foam, from the speed with which he had come. It was Harry Davenant. And the tidings he brought were that on yesterday morning Lord Strafford had been beheaded on Tower Hill, a hundred thousand people gathered there to see; but through all the silent multitude neither sighs of sympathy nor sounds of triumph. The servants silently dispersed. Harry's horse was led to the stables, and we went in with Lady Lucy, Sir Walter, and Sir Launcelot, into the hall. "That is what they were doing in London while we were gathering blue-bells!" said Lettice. And she threw her flowers on the stone floor. "I will never gather any more."