furnish,” and he knew so much that the poor ignorant people about him fancied he must have obtained his knowledge by magic. But far better than all this, Bishop Grosteste was taught of God. His soul was like a plant which grew up towards the light, and Jesus Christ was his Sun.

In this day of full, brilliant Gospel light, we can hardly imagine the state of affairs then. Perhaps one fact will help us to do it as well as many. In every house there was an image set up before which all prayers were said. Sometimes it was a crucifix, sometimes an image of the Virgin Mary, sometimes of some other saint—for the saints, male and female, were a great crowd. But the crucifix or the Virgin Mary were generally preferred; and why? Because the poor worshippers fancied that the crucifix had more power than the image of a saint, and that the Virgin was able to look after her own candle! A torch, or in later times a candle, was always burning in front of the image; and of course if the image could keep it alight, it was much less trouble to the worshipper!

But had they no common sense in those days? Well, really, it looks sometimes as if they had not. When men once turn aside from God’s Word, it is impossible to say to what folly or wickedness they will not go. “The entrance of Thy words giveth light; yea, it giveth understanding unto the simple.”

Very few bishops then living would have taken any notice of the humble foster-sister who lived in that tiny house, and worked: for her living—she and her daughter being both widows, and the child dependent on them. It was hard work then, as now, for such people to get along. It is often really harder for them than for the very poor.

The guests being now come, Agnes dished up the four-hours—if that can be called dishing up when there were no dishes! She lifted a great pan off the hook where it hung over the fire—for it must be remembered there were no bars, and pans had to be hung over the fire by a handle like that of a kettle—and poured out into the bowl a quantity of soup. She then served out a cake of white bread to the Bishop—a rare dainty—black bread to the chaplain and her mother, and hard oat-cake for herself and Avice. They then began to eat, after the Bishop had made the sign of the crossover the bowl, which answered to saying grace; all the spoons going into the one bowl, the Bishop being respectfully allowed to help himself first.

“And how goes it now with thee, my sister Muriel?” asked the Bishop.

The Grandmother gave a little shake of her head, though she answered cheerfully enough.

“Things go pretty well, holy Father, I thank you. Work is off and on, as it may be; but we manage to keep a roof over our heads, as you see, and we can even find a bowl of broth and a wheat-cake for our friends. The Lord be praised for all His mercies!”

“Well said, my sister. And what do you intend to make of your little maid here?”

“Marry, I intend to make a good worker of her,” said Agnes in her turn, “and not an idle giggling good-for-nought, as most of the lasses be. She shall spin, and weave, and card, and sew, and scour, and wash, and bake, and brew, and churn, and cook, and not let the grass grow under her feet, or else I’ll see!”

“Truly a goodly list of duties for one maid,” replied the Bishop, with a smile. “And yet, good Agnes, I am about to ask if thou canst find room for another on the top of them.”

“Verily, holy Father, I am she that should work my fingers to the bone to pleasure you,” was the hearty answer.

“I thank thee, good my daughter. How shouldst thou like to go to London?”

“To London, Father!” And Agnes’s eyes grew as round as shillings.

To go to London was then looked on as a very serious matter. People made their wills before they started. And to ignorant Agnes, who had never in her life been ten miles from Lincoln, it sounded almost as tremendous an idea as being asked to go to the moon.

The Bishop smiled. He had been to Paris and Lyons.

“Ay, even to London town. I do indeed mean it, my daughter. There is, methinks, a career open to thee, which most should reckon rare preferment, and good success. Ah, what is success?” he added, as if to himself. “Howbeit, thou shalt hear. The Lady Queen lacketh nurses for her children, and reckoning thou shouldst well fill such a place, I made bold to speak for thee. And she thus far granted me, that thou shouldst go up to Windsor, where the King’s children are kept, and she herself is at this present, there to talk with her, and let her see if thou art fit for the post. If on further acquaintance she be pleased with thee, then shalt thou be made nurse to one of the children; and if not, then the Lady Queen will pay thy charges home. What sayest, my daughter?—and thou also, Muriel, my sister?”

Both Muriel and Agnes felt as if their breath were taken away. As to Avice, she was listening with those large ears for which little pitchers are proverbial. The Bishop had spoken quietly, as if it were an every-day occurrence, of this enormous change which would affect their whole lives.

“Verily, Father, you are too good to us,” said Muriel gratefully.

“And I will try to thank you, Father,” added Agnes, “when I get back my senses, and can find out whether I am on my head or my heels.”

The Bishop and his chaplain laughed; and Agnes, recalled to her duties by seeing the soup-bowl empty, jumped up and took down the spit on which a chicken was roasting at the fire. Chickens were dear just then, and this one had cost three farthings, having been provided in honour of company. People helped themselves in those days in a very rough and simple manner. Agnes held the chicken on the spit to the Bishop, who cut from it with his own knife the part he preferred; then she served the chaplain and Muriel in the same way, and lastly cut some off for herself and Avice. Finally, when little was left beside the carcase, she opened the back door, and bestowed the remains on Manikin the turnspit dog, a little wiry, shaggy cur, which, released from his labours, had sat on the hearth licking his lips while the process of helping went on, knowing that his reward would come at last. Manikin trotted off into the yard with his treasure, and Agnes came back to the table and the subject.

“Truly, holy Father, I know not how to thank you. But indeed I will do my best to deserve your good word, should it please God so to order the same.”

“I doubt not thou wilt do well, my daughter. Bear thou in mind that Christ our Lord is thy Master, and thy service must be good enough to be laid at His feet. Then shalt thou well serve the Queen.”

Agnes was a very ignorant woman. Bishop Grosteste, being himself a wise man, could not at all realise how ignorant she was. She knew very little how to serve God, but she did really wish to do it. And that, after all, is the great thing. Those who have the will can surely, sooner or later, find out how.

When the guests were gone, Agnes threw another log of wood upon the fire, and came and stood before it. “Well, Mother, what must we do touching this matter? Verily I am all of a tumblement. What think you?”

“I think, my daughter,” said old Muriel calmly from the chimney-corner, “that we are not going to set forth for London within this next half-hour.”

“Nay, truly; yet we must think well on it.”

“We shall do well to sleep on it, and yet better to ask counsel of the Lord.”

“But we must go, Mother! It would never do to offend the holy Bishop!”

“Bishop Robert my brother is not he that should be angered because we preferred God’s counsel to his. But it may be that we shall find, after prayer and thought, that his counsel is God’s.”

It was to that conclusion they came the next day.

After the Bishop’s departure, for a long time all was bustle and confusion. Agnes declared that she did not know where her head was, nor sometimes whether she