There were but two people in the world for whom Emlyn Stower cared--Cicely, her foster-child, and a certain playmate of hers, one Thomas Bolle, now a lay-brother at the Abbey who had charge of the cattle. The tale was that in their early youth he had courted her, not against her will, and that when, after her parents’ tragic deaths, as a ward of the former Abbot of Blossholme, she was married to her husband, not with her will, this Thomas put on the robe of a monk of the lowest degree, being but a yeoman of good stock though of little learning. Something in the woman’s manner attracted Cicely’s attention, and gave a hint of tragedy. She paused at the door, fumbling with its latch, which was not her way, then turned and stood upright against it, like a picture in its frame. “What is it, Nurse?” asked Cicely in a shaken voice. “From your look you bear tidings.” Emlyn Stower walked forward, rested one hand upon the oak table and answered-- “Aye, evil tidings if they be true. Prepare your heart, my sweet.” “Quick with them, Emlyn,” gasped Cicely. “Who is dead? Christopher?” She shook her head, and Cicely sighed in relief, adding-- “Who, then? Oh! was that dream true?” “Aye, dear; you are an orphan.” The girl’s head fell forward. Then she lifted it, and asked-- “Who told you? Give me all the truth or I shall die.” “A friend of mine who has to do with the Abbey yonder; ask not his name.” “I know it, Emlyn; Thomas Bolle,” she whispered back. “A friend of mine,” repeated the tall, dark woman, “told me that Sir John Foterell, your sire, was murdered last night in the forest by a gang of armed men, of whom he slew two.” “From the Abbey?” queried Cicely in the same whisper. “Who knows? I think it. They say that the arrow in his throat was such as they make there. Jeffrey Stokes was hunted, but escaped on to some ship that had her anchor up.” “I’ll have his life for it, the coward!” exclaimed Cicely. “Blame him not yet. He met another friend of mine, and sent a message. It was that he did but obey his master’s last orders, and, as he had seen too much and to linger here was certain death, if he lived, he would return from over-seas with the papers when the times are safer. He prayed that you would not doubt him.” “The papers! What papers, Emlyn?” She shrugged her broad shoulders. “How should I know? Doubtless some that your father was taking to London and did not desire to lose. His iron chest stands open in his chamber.” Now poor Cicely remembered that her father had spoken of certain “deeds” which he must take with him, and began to sob. “Weep not, darling,” said her foster-mother, smoothing Cicely’s brown hair with her strong hand. “These things are decreed of God, and done with. Now you must look to yourself. Your father is gone, but one remains.” Cicely lifted her tear-stained face. “Yes, I have you,” she said.