Three months had rolled away since that thirteenth of January which had made Constance a widow. Her versatile, volatile nature soon recovered the shock of her husband's violent death. The white garments of widowhood which draped her found little response either in the gravity of her demeanour or in the expression of her face. But on the Dowager Lady the effect was very different. She became an old, infirm woman all at once; but her manner was softer and gentler. She learned to make more allowance for temperaments which entirely differed from hers. There were no further efforts to repress her little grandson's noisy glee, no more cold responses to his occasionally troublesome demonstrations of affection. The alteration was quiet, but lasting. It was an hour after dinner, and Maude sat alone at work in the banquet-hall. She was almost unconsciously humming to herself the air of a troubadour chanson--an air as well-known to ourselves as to her, though we have turned it into a hymn tune, and have christened it Innocents, or Durham. A fresh stave was just begun, when the hall door opened, and a voice at the further end announced-- "A messenger from my Lord of Aumerle!" Maude rose as the messenger approached her. "Your servant, sir! If you bear any letter, I will carry the same unto my Lady." "Here is the letter, Mistress Maude," replied the messenger with a smile. "Methinks I am more changed than you be." Maude looked more narrowly at him. "I know you now, Master Calverley," she said, a smile breaking over her lips. "But you ware not that beard the last time I did see you." She took the letter to Constance, and when she returned, she found Hugh and his old friend Bertram in close conversation. "Verily, sweet Hugh,"--Bertram was saying--"there is one thing in this world I can in no wise fathom! How thy Lord--" "There be full many things in this world that I cannot," interposed Hugh. "How thy Lord ordereth his dealings is beyond me," ended Bertram. "In good sooth, I have enough ado to look to mine own dealings, though I should let other men's be," answered Hugh. "Lo' you now, Mistress Maude! Here is my Lord of Aumerle--you wis somewhat of his deeds--high in favour with the King, and prevailing upon his Grace to grant all manner of delicates [good things] unto our Lady. He hath soothly-stirred [persuaded] him unto the bestowal of every manor that was our late Lord's father's (whom God assoil!) and of all his jewels, and of the custody of the young Lord. And 'tis not four months gone since he sold our Lord to his death! What signifieth he by this whileness?" [Whirling, turning round.] Maude shook her head, as if to say that she could not tell. She had resumed her work, the hemming of what she (not very elegantly) called a sudary, and we, euphemistically but tautologically, a pocket-handkerchief.