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tighter and gave a righteous smirk to the younger. The nurse, plainly disgusted by this performance, let them go and begged to be excused.
    “Yes, but stay near, for you must take them back when this is settled.” The nurse unobtrusively rolled her eyes heavenward, as if she considered it might never be settled.
    “Now, whose doll is it?” asked Margaret, in an even voice.
    “Mine!” snapped the older girl.
    “B-but the dwess is mine !” sobbed the younger. “Sh-she said I could play if I lent it!”
    “Cecily, did you say that Alison could play with your doll if she lent you her dress?”
    “Yes, and I did let her play,” the righteous one pronounced.
    “For one little tiny bit, and then she grabbed it!”
    “And then what did you do, Alison?” the mother questioned gently.
    “I kicked her.”
    “And so, Cecily, you pulled her hair?”
    “Well, it doesn’t count, because she kicked me first!”
    “Girls who fight disappoint their mama.” The girls looked unrepentant. “Girls who fight make their papa sad.” The girls looked at each other with alarm. This might be serious. “So to keep sisters from fighting, I shall take the doll, and put her in the chest, here, until the sisters kiss each other and apologize, and promise to play together nicely.” With a swift gesture Margaret detached the doll and placed it in the chest in the corner. “And if you fight again today, she’ll stay there a whole week,” said Margaret firmly.
    With a horrified gesture the sisters clutched each other.
    “But, mama, we need her!” they protested.
    “If you need her, you’ll kiss and make up.” With grumpy distaste the sisters embraced each other and exchanged pecks. The doll was removed from the chest and the nurse called. The last words that Brother Gregory, somewhat appalled, heard floating back through the half-opened door were “Well, if you must play with her more, then you will be the nurse, and I will be the mama….”
    “Well,” said Margaret, “you were telling me about the Ancients.”
    “If you will permit me to offer a suggestion, whether you write in the worthy style of the Ancients or not, you will never finish any book if you permit such trivia and everyday matters to interfere.”
    “That is what you have said already.”
    “About your writing, madame, but not about your life,” responded Brother Gregory, somewhat tartly.
    “It is good you are honest,” said Margaret, trying to mollify her crusty amanuensis. “But I have never been able to avoid doing what was necessary at the moment, and so I will have to keep on doing my best in that way, since I know no other.” Brother Gregory shook his head. Length, he supposed, would increase his fee, but this was all going to be a more complex project than he had imagined.

 
     
    CHAPTER TWO
     
    I HOPE YOU HAVE KEPT IN MIND MY WORDS about the Ancients,” said Brother Gregory as he looked reprovingly at Margaret. A worldly man might have found little to reproach in the simple dress and mannerisms of the woman who stood before him, but Brother Gregory had stricter standards than most in these matters.
    Before Brother Gregory’s unusual height Margaret seemed short, rather than of medium height. She was clad in a dress of plain gray wool, without adornment or tight lacing; over this was a surcoat in deep sky blue, lined with gray squirrel fur and decorated with a single band of embroidery around the central panel and the hem. A pale, slender leather belt held the ring of keys and purse at her waist; her hair was neatly braided and coiled into two brightly colored silk hairnets beside her ears. Over her braids she wore a fresh white linen veil and wimple, as is proper for married women.
    Margaret had an erect posture and moved with natural grace. But what one noticed in particular were her hands, which were unadorned by the many rings usually worn by women in her position. Slender and tapered, they moved in simple, graceful gestures that seemed