They were together one evening in Margaret’s own white little room above the oak parlour. Beatrice was sitting before the fire with her arms clasped behind her head, waiting till the other had finished her office, and looking round pleased in her heart, at the walls that told their tale so plainly. It was almost exactly like a cell. A low oak bed, red-blanketted, stood under the sloping roof, a prie-dieu beside it, and a cheap little French image of St. Scholastica over it. There was a table, with a sheet of white paper, a little ink-horn and two quills primly side by side upon it; and at the back stood a couple of small bound volumes in which the nun was accumulating little by little private devotions that appealed to her. A pair of beads hung on a nail by the window over which was drawn an old red curtain; two brass candlesticks with a cross between them stood over the hearth, giving it a faint resemblance to an altar. The boards were bare except for a strip of matting by the bed; and the whole room, walls, floor, ceiling and furniture were speckless and precise. Margaret made the sign of the cross, closed her book, and smiled at Beatrice. “You dear child!” she answered. Margaret’s face shone with pleasure; and she put out her hand softly to the other’s knee, and laid it there. “Talk to me,” said the nun. “Well?” said Beatrice. “Tell me about your life in London. You never have yet, you know.” An odd look passed over the other’s face, and she dropped her eyes and laid her hands together in her lap. “Oh, Meg,” she said, “I should love to tell you if I could. What would you like to hear?” The nun looked at her wondering. “Why--everything,” she said. “Shall I tell you of Chelsea and Master More?” Margaret nodded, still looking at her; and Beatrice began.