'Their mother!' repeated Richard, bewildered.

'Their mother, the church,' explained Dorothy.

'Oh!' said Richard. 'Nay, they would but cast out of her the wolves
in sheep's clothing that devour the lambs.'

The girl was silent. Anger glowed on her forehead and flashed from
her grey eyes. She stood one moment, then turned to leave him, but
half turned again to say scornfully--

'I must go at once to my mother! I knew not I had left her with such
a wolf as master Herbert is like to prove!'

'Master Herbert is no bishop, Dorothy!'

'The bishops, then, are the wolves, master Heywood?' said the girl,
with growing indignation.

'Dear Dorothy, I am but repeating what I hear. For my own part, I
know little of these matters. And what are they to us if we love one
another?'

'I tell you I am a child no longer,' flamed Dorothy.

'You were seventeen last St. George's Day, and I shall be nineteen
next St. Michael's.'

'St. George for merry England!' cried Dorothy.