Such was the state of affairs with both, when one June morning Margaret walked forth alone on the skirts of the forest. As she moved slowly along to a tryst with Lacy, which was to be held under the shadow of an old oak spreading its branches across a grassy slope, she met one of the friars of the monastery, whose gray towers she could see in the distance rising out of the thick greenery which encircled it. Margaret knew the reverend father, and had often sought his advice and counsel in her girlish troubles. Now she saw his face clouded and stern, as he
met her gaze.
“Benedicite, my daughter,” he said, stopping in her footsteps. “Yet before I give thee my benediction, let me see if thou wilt accept of counsel, or deservest my blessing. How hast thou been busy of late? I fear other places have seen more of thy presence than church or confessional.”
Margaret blushed, and as she began to answer, stopped, frightened at the friar’s stern glance.
“Do you know who is this gallant who has been so much with thee of late?” inquired the friar.
“Yes, father. He is a rich farmer’s son, from Beccles, who comes here with honorable suit from another wealthier farmer in his own town, But indeed, father, I care not for the suit he brings, and I have often told him so.”
