"Go to!" said Mariot with a knowing smile. "How many a time, thinkest, have I heard that saying from folks at whose wedding I have danced within the next twelvemonth? Thine eyes be tell-tales, Lolly. An’ thou be heart-free, mine eyes be no true men." "Thou sayest sooth," was Lawrence’s answer, in rather a sorrowful tone. "But one heart is not enough for a wedding, my sister. More than one swallow goeth to make a summer." "Dear heart, two swallows were plenty for that summer," replied Mariot, laughing. "Hast asked her, lad?" she added somewhat drily. Lawrence confessed the negative. "Art awaiting till she ask thee?" demanded Mariot with an amused look. "Scarce that, methinks. Nay, Mariot, she hath thought of the veil. Who am I, that I should set me in rivalry with God?" "Go to!" returned Mariot, with a strong good sense which was not common in her era. "Veils be for broken hearts and worn-down widows, and unchilded mothers—for women which have smoothed down the green turf over their hearts’ best love. They be not for young maids, fresh and bright, with life opening afore them. Never think it!" "Yet we should give God the best," said Lawrence sadly. "Give Him what He asketh of thee, Lolly. Methinks that is not often the making a man’s life desolate. But is the cloister the only way to give to God? Didst learn that from the Word, or out of thine own heart? He that trusteth his own heart is a fool." "Why, Mariot, art not giving me counsel to trust mine own heart in this matter?" "Never a whit. I counsel thee to trust God’s providence, and let Him choose for thee. If He have not meant this maid for thee, have no fear she shall say yea to thine asking. Do the thing that did King Ezekias, my dear lad—spread it before the Lord, and ask Him to lead her in accordance with His will. Then speak, and fear not. How wist thou that in her mind the choice lieth not betwixt the cloister and thee,—and if thy tongue be dumb, she must needs choose the other. She’ll not ask thee, I reckon." "She loveth me not at all," said Lawrence. "I’d make sure," was Mariot’s quiet conclusion. "There be some nuts be all o’er prickles o’ the outside, which be good enough when thou hast stripped off the bur." "Mistress Wenteline," said Lawrence, the next morning, "will you do me so much favour as tell me if Mistress Beatrice hath yet purpose to be a nun?" "I believe," answered Guenllian, "she hath purpose to be veiled with the White Ladies of Limbroke, if it may be, this next month." But as Lawrence passed on, she said to herself, "Unless you can persuade her out of it!" A few hours later, when the dusk had come, as Lawrence crossed the ante-chamber, into which the moon was shining brightly, he saw a dark figure standing in the recess of the window, and went up to it. His heart, rather than his eyes, told him who it was. "Is it you, Mistress Beatrice?" "It is I, Sir Lawrence."