"Bim! bome!" went the bell. The knight groaned audibly; Beatrice Grey wiped her eye with her little square apron of lace de Malines; there was a moment's pause,--a moment of intense affliction; she let it fall,--all but one corner, which remained between her finger and thumb.--She looked at Sir Guy; drew the thumb and forefinger of her other hand slowly along its border, till they reached the opposite extremity. She sobbed aloud: "So kind a lady!" said Beatrice Grey.--"So excellent a wife!" responded Sir Guy. "So good!" said the damsel.--"So dear!" said the knight.--"So pious!" said she.--"So humble!" said he.--"So good to the poor!"--"So capital a manager!"--"So punctual at matins!"--"Dinner dished to a moment!"--"So devout!" said Beatrice.--"So fond of me!" said Sir Guy.--"And of Father Francis!"--"What the devil do you mean by that?" said Sir Guy de Montgomeri. The knight and the maiden had rung their antiphonic changes on the fine qualities of the departing Lady, like the _Strophe_ and _Antistrophe_ of a Greek play. The cardinal virtues once disposed of, her minor excellences came under review:--She would drown a witch, drink lambs'-wool at Christmas, beg Dominie Dumps's boys a holiday, and dine upon sprats on Good Friday!--A low moan from the subject of these eulogies seemed to intimate that the enumeration of her good deeds was not altogether lost on her,--that the parting spirit felt and rejoiced in the testimony. "She was too good for earth!" continued Sir Guy. "Ye-ye-yes!" sobbed Beatrice. "I did not deserve her!" said the knight. "No-o-o-o!" cried the damsel. "Not but that I made her an excellent husband, and a kind; but she is going, and--and--where, or when, or how--shall I get such another?" "Not in broad England--not in the whole wide world!" responded Beatrice Grey; "that is, not _just_ such another!"--Her voice still faltered, but her accents on the whole were more articulate; she dropped the corner of her apron, and had recourse to her handkerchief; in fact, her eyes were getting red,--and so was the tip of her nose. Sir Guy was silent; he gazed for a few moments stedfastly on the face of his lady. The single word "Another!" fell from his lips like a distant echo;--it is not often that the viewless nymph repeats more than is necessary. "Bim! bome!" went the bell.--Bandy-legged Hubert had been tolling for half an hour;--he began to grow tired, and St. Peter fidgety. "Beatrice Grey!" said Sir Guy de Montgomeri, "what's to be done? What's to become of Montgomeri Hall?--and the buttery,--and the servants? And what--what's to become of _me_, Beatrice Grey?"--There was pathos in his tones, and a solemn pause succeeded. "I'll turn monk myself!" said Sir Guy. "Monk?" said Beatrice.