Four years after that winter evening, in the guest-chamber of the Convent of Sopwell sat a nun of middle age and cheerful look, in conversation with a woman in ordinary costume, but to whom the same description would very nearly apply. "Then what were the manner of maid you seek, good Ursula?" inquired the nun. "By Saint Luke's face, holy Sister, but I would not have her too cunning [clever]. I count (though I say it that need not) I am none ill one to learn her her work; and me loveth not to be checked ne taunted of mine underlings." The nun, who had known Ursula Drew for some time, was quite aware that superfluity of meekness did not rank among that worthy woman's failings. "I would fain have a small maid of some twelve or thirteen years. An' ye have them elder, they will needs count they know as much as you, and can return a sharp answer betimes. I love not masterful childre." "But would you not she were something learned?" "Nay! So she wit not a pig's head from a crustade Almayne, [A kind of pie of custard or batter, with currants] 'tis all one to me, an' she will do my bidding." "Then methinks I could right well fit you. We have here at this instant moment a small maid of twelve years, that my Lady the Prioress were well fain to put with such as you be, and she bade me give heed to the same. 'Tis a waif that Anthony, our goatherd, found in the forest, with her mother, that was frozen to death in an hard winter; but the child abode, and was saved. Truly, for cunning there is little in her; but for meekness and readiness to do your will, the maid is as good as any. But ye shall see her I think on." Sister Oliva stepped to the door, and spoke in a low tone to some person outside. She came back and reseated herself, and a minute afterwards there was a low, timid tap at the door. "Come in, child," said the nun. And Maude came in. She was small and slight for her twelve years, and preternaturally grave. A quantity of long dark hair hung round her head in a condition of seemingly hopeless tanglement, and the dark eyes, proportionately larger than the rest of the features, wore an expression of mingled apathy and suspicion, alike strange and painful to see in the eyes of a child. "Come forward, Maude, and speak with Mistress Drew. Mercy on us, child! how hast moiled thine hair like a fowl his pennes!" [Feathers.] Maude made no reply. She came a few steps nearer, dropped a rustic courtesy, and stood to be questioned. "What is thy name?" inquired Mistress Ursula, as though she were beginning the catechism. "Maude," said the child under her breath. "And what years hast--twelve?" "Twelve, the last Saint Margaret." "And where wert born? Dost know?" Maude knew, though for some reason with which she herself was best acquainted, she had been much more chary of her information to my Lady the Prioress than she now chose to be. "At Pleshy, in Essex." "And what work did thy father?"