“This Loller here wol precilen us somewhat.” “Nay by my father’s soule! that schal he nat,” Sayde the Schipman, ‘here schal he not preche, We schal no gospel glosen here ne teche. We leven all in the gret God,’ quod he. He wolden sowen some diffcultee.”—Canterbury Tales.

Dorothea had been safe at Freshitt Hall nearly a week before she had asked any dangerous questions. Every morning now she sat with Celia in the prettiest of up-stairs sitting-rooms, opening into a small conservatory—Celia all in white and lavender like a bunch of mixed violets, watching the remarkable acts of the baby, which were