The old playmates had become excessively ceremonious to each other. The brotherly sort of intercourse, resumed on their meeting at Trim, had been quite dropped, and they were as distantly civil as if they had made acquaintance only a few days before. "You can scarce see much hence, methinketh." "It is fair enough," said Beatrice, absently; adding after a moment, "fair enough for one who shall soon behold nought beyond convent walls." "Are you well avised thereabout, Mistress Beatrice?" "I think so much," she answered, gravely. "Thus said Father Robesart. Yet he seemed, something doubtful if you have well judged therein, as methought. It were grave matter to blunder over, Mistress Beatrice. There is no coming forth, howsoe’er one may desire it." "No," she said—and said no more. Lawrence took another step, and dropped a little of his ceremoniousness to do it. "Beatrice, dear old friend, is this for your happiness? Not one other word will I speak if you ensure me thereof." "Happiness is not the only thing," she said in a constrained voice. "Not so, maybe, for you to think on: yet methinks you might allow for your friends to concern them touching the same." Beatrice made no reply. "Are you well assured that our Lord calls you to that life, dear Beatrice? Might it not be better for you, no less than for other, that you should make happy some home and heart, rather than bury yourself in the cloister? Think well of it, ere you cast die that can never be recalled." "I have thought of it," said Beatrice in rather a hard tone. "I am not wanted otherwhere. Why should I not be a nun?" "Because you were never meant for one. Because it is not the right life for you, for whom life is but just opening. Because——" Beatrice interrupted him. "Life opening! Your pardon, Sir Lawrence. Life has closed for me." "You think so much now," he answered, gently. "This time next year, will you so think? Not wanted! Would you come where you were? I could tell you of one who wanteth you more than words can tell,—to whom the world will be black gloom if you go forth of it. But let that pass. I meant not to speak—Beattie, old friend, old playmate, sister if I may call you so, leave me plead with you this once, ere you bury your youth and hope where neither hope nor gladness can enter more. I know you too well, Beattie! You would be miserable in the cloister. Why not make some other life happy, and your own joined thereto?"