Our Little Lady--Six Hundred Years Ago, by Emily Sarah Holt. 

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This is one of the approximately thirty books by Emily Holt about lifein the Middle Ages. The language of the book is basically English aswe would understand it, strongly flavoured with words and phrases fromthe Middle Ages. The other thing that comes across strongly is howdifferent the attitudes to life were in those days. 

Avice, one of the elder women in the book, tells the story of how shehad become a nursery-maid in the Royal Palace, first at Windsor, andthen later at Westminster. One of the princesses she had to look afterwas a most beautiful child, but had been born deaf and dumb. She hadvarious gestures with which she communicated, but the sadness was, thatthey never could teach her to pray. Yet they were sure she spoke toChrist in her own way. The poor child died young. This all took placeat the end of the thirteenth century, hence the six hundred years of thetitle. 

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OUR LITTLE LADY, SIX HUNDRED YEARS AGO, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT. 

CHAPTER ONE. 

SIX HUNDRED YEARS AGO--WHAT THINGS WERE LIKE. 

The afternoon service was over in Lincoln Cathedral, and thecongregation were slowly filing out of the great west door. But thatafternoon service was six hundred years ago, and both the Cathedral andthe congregation would look very strange to us if we saw them now. Those days were well called the Dark Ages, and how dark they were we canscarcely realise in the present day. Let us fancy ourselves coming outof that west door, and try to picture what we should have seen there, six hundred years ago. 

The Cathedral itself is hardly to be known. It is crowded with paintedimages and embroidered banners, and filled with the smoke and scent ofburning incense. The clergy are habited, not in white surplices or inblack gowns, but in large stiff cloaks--copes they are called--ofscarlet silk, heavy with gold embroidery. The Bishop, who is in thepulpit, wears a cope of white, thick with masses of gold, and on hishead is a white and gold mitre. How unlike that upper chamber, wherethe disciples gathered together after the crucifixion of their Master!Is it better or worse, do you ask? Well, I think if the Master were tocome in, it would be easier to see Him in the quiet upper chamber, wherethere was nothing else to see, than in the perfumed and decoratedCathedral where there was so much else!

But now let us look at the congregation as they pass out. Are they allwomen? for all alike seem to wear long skirts and thick hoods: there areneither trousers, nor hats, nor bonnets. No, there is a fair sprinklingof men; but men and women dressed more alike then than they do now. Youwill see, if you look, that some of these long skirts are open in front, and you may catch a glimpse of a beard here and there under the hood. This is a poor woman who comes now: she wears a serge dress which hascost her about three-halfpence a yard, and a threadbare hood for whichshe may have given sixpence. 

Are things so cheap, then? No, just the other way about; money is sodear. The wages of a mason or a bricklayer are about sixpence a week;haymakers have the same; reapers get from a shilling to half-a-crown, and mowers one and ninepence. The gentlemen who wait on the Kinghimself only receive a shilling a day. 

Here comes one of them, in a long green robe of shining silky stuff, which is called samite; round his neck is a curiously cut collar of darkred cloth, and in his hand he carries a white hood. Men do not confinethemselves to the quiet, sober colours that we are accustomed to see;they are smarter than the ladies themselves. This knight, as he passesout, throws his gown back, before mounting his horse, and you see hisyellow hose striped with black--trousers and stockings all in a piece, as it were--with low black shoes, and gilt spurs. 

But who follows him?--this superbly dressed woman in rich blueglistening samite, with a black and gold hood, under which we see herhair bound with a golden fillet, and a necklace of costly pearls claspedround her throat--for it is a warm day, and she has not tied her hood. She must be somebody of consequence, for a smart gentleman leads her bythe hand, and one with a long staff walks in front, to keep the peoplefrom pressing too close on her. She is indeed somebody of consequence--the Countess of Lincoln herself, by birth an Italian Princess; and sheis so grand, and so rich, and so beautiful and stately--and I am sorryto add, so proud--that people call her the Queen of Lincoln. She hasnot far to go home--only through the archway, and past Saint Michael'sChurch and the Bull Gate, and then the great portcullis of the grim oldCastle lifts its head to receive its lady, and she disappears from oursight. 

Do you notice that carpets are spread along the streets for her?--notcarpets like ours, but the only sort they have, which are a kind ofrough matting. And indeed she needs them, if those purple velvet shoesof hers are not to be quite ruined by the time she reaches home. Forthere are no pavements, and the streets are almost ankle-deep in mud, and worse than mud. Dead cats, rotten vegetables, animal refuse, andevery kind of abominable thing that you could see or think of, all lieabout in heaps, in these narrow, narrow streets, where the sun canhardly get down to the ground, and two people might sometimes shakehands from opposite windows in the upper stories, for they come fartherout than the lower ones. Everybody throws all his rubbish into thestreet; all his slops, all his ashes, all his everything of which hewants to get rid. The smells are something dreadful, as soon as youcome out of the perfumed churches. It is pleasanter to have thechurches perfumed, undoubtedly; but it would be a good deal healthier ifthey kept the streets clean. 

Quietly following the grand young Countess, at a respectful distance, come two women who are evidently mother and daughter. Their dress showsthat they are not absolutely poor, but it tells at least as plainly thatthey are not at all rich. Just as they reach the west door, a littlegirl of ten comes quickly after them, dressed just like themselves, awoman in miniature. 

"Why, Avice, where hast thou been?" says the elder of the two women. 

"I was coming, Grandmother, " explains little Avice, "and Father Thomascalled me, and bade me tell you that the holy Bishop would come to seeyou this afternoon, and sup his four-hours with you. "

Four-hours, taken as its name shows at four o'clock, was the meal whichanswered to our tea. Bishops do not often drink tea with women of thisclass, but this was a peculiar Bishop, and the woman to whom he sentthis message was his own foster-sister. 

"Truly, and I shall be glad to see him, " says the Grandmother; and onthey go out of the west door. 

The carpets which were spread for the Countess have been rolled away, and our three humble friends pick their steps as best they may among thedirt-heaps, occasionally slipping into a puddle--I am afraid Avice nowand then walks into it deliberately for the fun of the splash!--andfollowing the road taken by the Countess as far as the Bull Gate, theythen turn to the left, leaving the frowning Castle on their right, andbegin to descend the steep slope well named Steephill. 

They have not gone many yards when two people overtake them--a man and awoman. The man stops to speak: the woman marches on with her armsfolded and her head in the air, as if they were invisible. 

"Good morrow, Dan, " says the old lady. 

"Good morrow, Mother, " answers Dan. 

"What's the matter with Filomena?"

"A touch of the old complaint, that's all, " answers Dan drily. "We'd afew words o' th' road a-coming--leastwise she had, for she got it prettymuch to herself--and for th' next twelve hours or so she'll not be ableto see anybody under a squire. "

"Is she often like that, Dan?"

"Well, it doesn't come more days than seven i' th' week. "

"Why, you don't mean to say it's so every day?" said Agnes, the youngerwoman of our trio. 

Dan shook his head. "Happen there's an odd un now and then as gets letoff, " said he. "But I must after her, or there'll be more hot water. And it comes to table boilin', I can tell you. Good morrow!"

Dan runs rather heavily after his incensed spouse, and our friendscontinue to pick their way down Steephill. For rather more than halfthe way they go, and when just past the Church of Saint Lawrence, theyturn into a narrow street on the left, and in a few yards more they areat home. 

Home is one of the smallest houses you ever saw. It has only two rooms, one above the other; but they are a fair size, being about twenty-fivefeet by sixteen. The upper, of course, is the bedroom; the lower one iskitchen and parlour; and a ladder leads from one to the other. Theupper chamber holds a bed, which is like a box out of which the bottomhas been taken, filled with straw, and on that is a hard straw mattress, two excessively coarse blankets, and a thick, shaggy, woollen rug for acounterpane. There are not any sheets or pillow-cases; but a thick, hard bolster, stuffed like the mattress with straw, serves for a pillow. 

At the foot of the oak bedstead is a large oak chest, big enough to holda man, in which the owners keep all their small property of any value. There are no chairs, but the deep windows have wooden seats, and twowooden stools are in the corners. As to wardrobes, chests of drawers, dressing-tables, and washstands, nobody knows of such things at thatday. The chest serves the purpose of all except the washstand, and theyfind that (as much as they have of it) at the draw-well in the littleback yard. The window is just a square hole in the wall, closed with awooden shutter, so that light and air--if not wind and rain--come intogether. A looking-glass they have, but a poor makeshift it is, beingof metal and rounded; and those who know what a comical aspect your facetakes when you see it in a metal teapot, can guess how far anybody couldsee himself rightly in it. It is nailed up, too, so high on the wallthat it is not easy to see anything. This is all the furniture of thebedroom. 

Downstairs there is more though there are no chairs and tables, unless aleaf-table in the wall, which lets down, can go by that name. There aretwo or three long settles stretching across the wall--the settle wascalled a bench when it had a back to it, and a form if it had not. There is a large bake-stone in one corner; the bread is put on the topto bake, with the fire underneath, and when there is no fire, the topcan be used as a table, a moulding board, or in many other ways. But itmust not be supposed that such bread is in large square or cottageloaves like ours. It is made in flat cakes, large or small, thick orthin. By the side of the bake-stone is the sink, or rather that whichanswers to one, being a rough brick basin, with a plug in the bottom, and just beneath it is a little channel in the brick floor, by which, when the plug is pulled up, the dirty water finds its way out into thestreet under the house door. People who live in this way need--andwear--short gowns and stout shoes. 

The opposite corner holds the pine-torches and chips; they burn nothingbut wood, for though coal is known, it is very little used. This ispartly because it is expensive; but also because it is consideredshockingly unhealthy. The smoke from wood or turf is thought verywholesome; but that from coal is just the reverse. Opposite thebake-stone is the window; a very little one, much wider than it is high, and rilled with exceedingly small diamond-shaped panes of very poorgreenish glass set in lead, there being so much lead and so little glassthat the room is but dark in the brightest sunshine. Indeed, it isdecidedly a sign of gentility that the house has any window at all, beyond the square hole with the wooden shutter. 

Up and down the room there are several stools, high and low; the highones serve when wanted as little movable tables. In the third corner isa bread-rack, filled with hard oat-cake above, and the soft flat cakesof wheat flour below; in the fourth stand several large barrelscontaining salt fish, salt meat, flour, meal, and ale. From the top ofthe room hang hams, herbs in canvas bags, strings of smoked fish, a fewempty baskets and pails, and anything else which can be hung up. Therafters are so low that when the inmates move about they have every nowand then to courtesy to a ham or a pail, which would otherwise hit themon the head. A door by the window leads into the street, and anotherbeyond the barrels gives access to the back yard. 

How would you like to go back, gentle reader, to this style of life?This was the way in which your forefathers lived, six hundred yearsago--unless they were very grand people indeed. Then they lived in abig castle with walls two or three feet thick, and ate from gold orsilver plates, and had the luxury of a chimney in their dining-rooms. But even then, there were a good many little matters in respect of whichI do not fancy you would quite like to change with them! Would you liketo eat with your fingers, and to find creeping creatures everywhere, andto have _no_ books and newspapers, and no letters, and no shops exceptin great towns, and no way of getting about except on foot or horseback, and no lamps, candles, clocks or watches, china, spectacles, nor carpetson the floor? Yet this was the way in which kings and queens lived, sixhundred years ago. 

In respect of clothes, people were much better off. They dressed farmore warmly than we do, and used a great deal of fur, not only fortrimming or out-door wear, but to line their clothes in winter. Buttheir furs comprised much commoner and cheaper skins than we use;ordinary people wore lambskins, with the fur of cats, hares, andsquirrels. Such furs as ermine and miniver were kept for the greatpeople; for there were curious rules and laws about dress in those days. It was not, as it is now, a question of what you could afford to buy, but of what rank you were. You could not wear ermine or samite unlessyou were an earl at the lowest; nor must you sleep on a feather bedunless you were a knight; nor might you eat your dinner from a metalplate, if you were not a gentleman. Such notions may sound ridiculousto us; but they were serious earnest, six hundred years ago. We shouldnot like to find that we had to go before a magistrate and pay a fine, if our shoes were a trifle too long, or our trimmings an inch too wide. But in the time of which I am writing, this was an every-day affair. 

In the house, women wore an odd sort of head-dress called a wimple, which came down to the eyebrows, and was fastened by pins above theears. When they went out of doors, they tied on a fur or woollen hoodabove it. The gown was very loose, and had no particular waist; thesleeves were excessively wide and long. But when women were at work, they had a way of tucking up their dresses at the bottom, so as to keepthem out of the perpetual slop of the stone or brick floor. Rich peopleput rushes on their floors except in winter, and as these were onlymoved once a year, all manner of unspeakable abominations were harbouredunderneath. In this respect the poor were the best off, since theycould have their brick floors as clean as they chose: as, even yet, there are points in which they have the advantage of richer people--ifthey only knew it!

But our picture is not quite finished yet. Look out of the littlewindow, and notice what you see. Can this be Sunday afternoon in a goodstreet? for every shop is open, and in the doorways stand young mencalling out to the passers-by to come in and look at their goods. "Whatlack you? what lack you?"

"Cherry ripe!"

"Buy my fine kerchiefs!"

"Any thimbles would you, maids?" Such cries as these ring on everyside. 

Yes, it is Sunday afternoon--"the rest of the holy Sabbath unto theLord. " But look where you will, you can see no rest. Everywhere therich are at play, and the poor are at work. What does this mean?

Think seriously of it, friends; for it will be no light matter ifEngland return to such ways as these again, and there are plenty ofpeople who are trying to bring them back. What it means is that ifholiness be lost from the Sabbath, rest will never stay behind. Playfor the few means work for the many. And let play get its head in, andwork will soon follow. 

If you want to walk the road of happiness, and to arrive at the home ofheaven, you must follow after God, for any other guide will lead in theopposite direction. The people who tell you that religion is a gloomything are always the people who have not any themselves. And things arevery different, according to whether you look at them from inside oroutside. How can you tell what there may be inside a house, so long asall you know of it is walking past a shut door?

Ever since Adam hid himself from the presence of the Lord God among thetrees of the garden, men and women have been prone to fancy that Godlikes best to see them unhappy. The old heathen always used to supposethat their gods were jealous of them, and they were afraid to be toohappy, lest the gods should be vexed! But the real God "takes pleasurein the prosperity of His people, " and "godliness hath the promise of thelife that now is, as well as of that which is to come. "

What language are our three friends talking? It sounds very odd. It isEnglish, and yet it is not. Yes, it is what learned men call "MiddleEnglish"--because it stands midway between the very oldest English, orAnglo-saxon, and the modern English which we speak now. It is about asmuch like our English as broad Scotch is. A few words and expressionsthrough the story will give an idea how different it is; but if I wereto write exactly as they would have spoken, nobody would understand itnow. 

And how do they live inside this tiny house? Well, in some respects, ina poorer and meaner way than the very poorest would live now. Look up, and you will see that there is no chimney, but the smoke finds its wayout through a hole above the fire, and when it is wet the rain comes inand puts the fire out. They know nothing about candles, but burn longshafts of pine-wood instead. There are such things as wax candles, indeed, but they are only used in church; nobody dreams of burning themin houses. And there are lamps, but they are made of gold and silver, and are never seen except in the big castles. There is no crockery; andmetal plates, as I said, are only for the grand people. The middleclasses use wooden trenchers--our friends have two--hollowed out to keepthe gravy in; and the poor have no plates at all beyond a cake of bread. Their drinking-glasses are just cows' horns, with the tip cut off and awooden bottom put in. They have also a few wooden bowls, and oneprecious brass pot; half a dozen knives, rough unwieldy things, and fourwooden spoons; one horn spoon is kept for best. Forks? Oh dear, no;nobody knows anything about forks, except a pitchfork. Table-linen?No, nor body-linen; those luxuries are only in the big castles. Let uswatch Avice's mother as she sets the table for four-hours, rememberingthat they are going to have company, and therefore will try to makethings a little more comfortable than usual. 

In the first place, there will be a table to set. If they were alone, they would use one or two of the high stools. But Agnes goes out intothe little yard, and brings back two boards and a couple of trestles, which she sets up in the middle of the room. This is the table--rathera rickety affair, you may say; and it will be quite as well that nobodyshould lean his elbow on it. Next, she puts on the boards four of thecows' horns, and the two trenchers, with one bowl. She then serves outa knife and spoon for each of four people, putting the horn spoon forthe Bishop. Her preparations are now complete, with the addition of onething which is never forgotten--a very large wooden salt-cellar, whichshe puts almost at one end, for where that stands is a matter ofimportance. Great people--and the Bishop is a very great person--mustsit above the salt, and small insignificant folks are put below. We mayalso notice that the Bishop is honoured with a horn and a trencher tohimself. This is an unusual distinction. Husband and wife always sharethe same plate, and other relatives very frequently. As to Avice, wesee that nothing is set for her. The child will share her mother'sspoon and horn; and if the Bishop brings his chaplain, he will have aspoon and horn for himself, but will eat off the Grandmother's plate. 

Our picture is finished, and now the story may begin. 

CHAPTER TWO. 

HOW THINGS CHANGED. 

"Open the door, Avice, quick!" said Agnes, as a rap came upon it. "Yonder, methinks, must be the holy Bishop. "

Avice ran to the door, and opened it, to find two priests standing onthe threshold. They entered, the foremost with a smile to the child, after which he held up his hand, saying, "Christ save all here!" Thenhe held out his hand, which both Agnes and her mother kissed, and satdown on one of the forms by the table. Every priest was then lookedupon as a most holy person. Some of them were a long way from holiness. But there were some who really deserved the title, and few deserved itso well as Robert Copley, Bishop of Lincoln, whom, according to thefashion of that day, people called Grosteste, or Great-head. 

For surnames were then only just beginning to grow, and very few peoplehad them--I mean, very few had received any from their fathers. Theyhad, therefore, to bear some name given to them. Sometimes a man wasnamed from his father--he was Robert John-son, or John Wil-son. Sometimes it was from his trade; he was Robert the Smith, or John theCarter. Sometimes it was from the place where he lived; he was Robertat the Mill, or John by the Brook. But sometimes it was from somethingabout himself, either as concerned his person or his ways; he was RobertRed-nose, or John White-hood, or William Turn-again. This is the way inwhich all surnames have grown. Now, as Bishop Copley's soul lodged well(as Queen Elizabeth said of Lord Bacon), in a large head and massivebrow, people took to calling him Great-head or Grosteste; and it is asBishop Grosteste, not as Bishop Copley, that he has been known down tothe present day. 

I have said that he was a peculiar man. He was much more peculiar, atthe time when he lived, than he would have been if he had lived now. Saint Peter told bishops that they were not to be lords over God'sheritage, but to be ensamples to the flock; but when Bishop Grostestelived, most bishops were very great lords, and very poor examples. Bishops, and clergymen too, were fond of going about in gay clothes ofall colours, playing at games, and even drinking at ale-houses. Many ofthem were positively not respectable men. But Bishop Grosteste and hischaplain were dressed in plain black, and they were of the few who walknot according to the course of this world. To them, "I like" was of nomoment, and "I ought" was of great importance. And what other peoplewould say, or what other people might be going to do, was a matter of noconsequence whatever. 

Such men are scarce in this follow-my-leader world. If you are sofortunate as to be related to one of them, take care you make much ofhim, for you may go a long way before you see another. With most people"I like" comes up at the top; and "What will people say?" comes next, and often pretty near; but "What does God tell me to do?" is a long wayoff, and sometimes so far off that they never come to it at all!

Bishop Grosteste lived in one of the darkest days of Christianity. Thick, dense ignorance, of all kinds, overwhelmed the masses of thepeople. Books were worth their weight in gold, there were so few ofthem; and still worse, very few could read them. When we know thatthere was a law by which a man who had been sentenced to death couldclaim pardon if he were able to read one verse of a Psalm, it gives usan idea how very little people can have known, and what a precious thinglearning was held to be. Even the clergy were not much wiser than therest, and they were generally the best educated of any. Most of themcould just get through the services, not so much by reading them as byknowing what they had to say; and they often made very queer blundersbetween words which were nearly alike. A few, here and there, werereally learned men; and Bishop Grosteste was one of them. He hadlearned "all that Europe could furnish, " and he knew so much that thepoor ignorant people about him fancied he must have obtained hisknowledge by magic. But far better than all this, Bishop Grosteste wastaught of God. His soul was like a plant which grew up towards thelight, and Jesus Christ was his Sun. 

In this day of full, brilliant Gospel light, we can hardly imagine thestate of affairs then. Perhaps one fact will help us to do it as wellas many. In every house there was an image set up before which allprayers were said. Sometimes it was a crucifix, sometimes an image ofthe Virgin Mary, sometimes of some other saint--for the saints, male andfemale, were a great crowd. But the crucifix or the Virgin Mary weregenerally preferred; and why? Because the poor worshippers fancied thatthe crucifix had more power than the image of a saint, and that theVirgin was able to look after her own candle! A torch, or in latertimes a candle, was always burning in front of the image; and of courseif the image could keep it alight, it was much less trouble to theworshipper!

But had they no common sense in those days? Well, really, it lookssometimes 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 understandingunto the simple. "

Very few bishops then living would have taken any notice of the humblefoster-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 isoften really harder for them than for the very poor. 

The guests being now come, Agnes dished up the four-hours--if that canbe called dishing up when there were no dishes! She lifted a great panoff the hook where it hung over the fire--for it must be rememberedthere were no bars, and pans had to be hung over the fire by a handlelike 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 forherself and Avice. They then began to eat, after the Bishop had madethe sign of the crossover the bowl, which answered to saying grace; allthe spoons going into the one bowl, the Bishop being respectfullyallowed 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 answeredcheerfully 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 littlemaid 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, andbake, and brew, and churn, and cook, and not let the grass grow underher feet, or else I'll see!"

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

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

"I thank thee, good my daughter. How shouldst thou like to go toLondon?"

"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. Peoplemade their wills before they started. And to ignorant Agnes, who hadnever in her life been ten miles from Lincoln, it sounded almost astremendous 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 rarepreferment, and good success. Ah, what is success?" he added, as if tohimself. "Howbeit, thou shalt hear. The Lady Queen lacketh nurses forher children, and reckoning thou shouldst well fill such a place, I madebold to speak for thee. And she thus far granted me, that thou shouldstgo up to Windsor, where the King's children are kept, and she herself isat this present, there to talk with her, and let her see if thou art fitfor the post. If on further acquaintance she be pleased with thee, thenshalt thou be made nurse to one of the children; and if not, then theLady Queen will pay thy charges home. What sayest, my daughter?--andthou also, Muriel, my sister?"

Both Muriel and Agnes felt as if their breath were taken away. As toAvice, she was listening with those large ears for which little pitchersare proverbial. The Bishop had spoken quietly, as if it were anevery-day occurrence, of this enormous change which would affect theirwhole 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 mysenses, and can find out whether I am on my head or my heels. "

The Bishop and his chaplain laughed; and Agnes, recalled to her dutiesby seeing the soup-bowl empty, jumped up and took down the spit on whicha chicken was roasting at the fire. Chickens were dear just then, andthis one had cost three farthings, having been provided in honour ofcompany. People helped themselves in those days in a very rough andsimple manner. Agnes held the chicken on the spit to the Bishop, whocut from it with his own knife the part he preferred; then she servedthe chaplain and Muriel in the same way, and lastly cut some off forherself and Avice. Finally, when little was left beside the carcase, she opened the back door, and bestowed the remains on Manikin theturnspit dog, a little wiry, shaggy cur, which, released from hislabours, had sat on the hearth licking his lips while the process ofhelping went on, knowing that his reward would come at last. Manikintrotted off into the yard with his treasure, and Agnes came back to thetable and the subject. 

"Truly, holy Father, I know not how to thank you. But indeed I will domy best to deserve your good word, should it please God so to order thesame. "

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

Agnes was a very ignorant woman. Bishop Grosteste, being himself a wiseman, could not at all realise how ignorant she was. She knew verylittle 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 thefire, and came and stood before it. "Well, Mother, what must we dotouching this matter? Verily I am all of a tumblement. What thinkyou?"

"I think, my daughter, " said old Muriel calmly from the chimney-corner, "that we are not going to set forth for London within this nexthalf-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 theLord. "

"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 wepreferred God's counsel to his. But it may be that we shall find, afterprayer 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 andconfusion. Agnes declared that she did not know where her head was, norsometimes whether she had any. Avice was at the height of enjoyment. Old Muriel went quietly about her work, keeping at it, "doing the nextthing, " and got through more work than either. 

The Bishop did all he could to help them. He found them a tenant forthe house, lent them money--all his money not spent on real necessarieswas either lent or given to such as needed it more than he did; and atlast he sent them southwards on his own horses, and in charge of threeof his servants. From Lincoln to Windsor was a five days' journey ofrather long stages; and when at last they reached the royal borough, simple--minded Agnes had begun to feel as if no further power ofastonishment were left in her mind. 

"Dear, I never thought the world was so big!" she had said before theyleft Grantham; and when they arrived at Aylesbury, her cry was--"Eh, what a power of folks be in this world!"

Old Muriel took her journey, as she did everything, calmly. She, likeBishop Grosteste himself, lived too much with God to be easily startledor overawed by the grandeur of man. Avice was in a state of excitementand delight through the whole time. 

They slept at a small inn; and the next morning, one of the Bishop'sservants, who had received his orders beforehand, took up to the Castlea letter from his master, and waited to hear when it would please theQueen to see them. He came back in an hour, with the news that theQueen would receive them that afternoon. 

Agnes was in a condition of restless flutter till the time came. Thenthey dressed themselves in their very best, and Luke, the Bishop'sservant, took them up to the Castle. 

If Agnes had felt confused at the mere idea of her interview, she foundthe reality still more overwhelming than she expected. The first thingshe realised was that she stood in an immense hall, surrounded by whatseemed to her a crowd of very smart gentlemen. Then they were ledthrough passages and galleries, upstairs and downstairs, till Agnes feltas though she could never hope to find her way back; and at last, in avery handsome room, where the walls were covered with painting, and thefurniture upholstered in silk, they came into the midst of a secondcrowd of very grand ladies. By this time poor Agnes had quite lost herhead; and when one of the fine ladies asked her what she wanted, shecould only drop a succession of courtesies and look totally bewildered. Old Muriel managed better. 

"Under your leave, Madam, we have been sent for by my Lady the Queen. "

"Oh, are you the people who come about the nurses' place?" said theyoung lady, who looked good-natured enough. "Follow me, and I will leadyou to the Queen's chamber. "

How many more chambers can there be? was the wonder uppermost in themind of Agnes. But they walked through several more, each to her eyesgrander than the last, painted, with stained glass windows, andsilk-covered furniture. At length the young lady desired them to wait amoment where they were, while she took in their names to the Queen. Shedrew back a crimson silk curtain, and disappeared behind it; and thethree--for they had never thought of leaving Avice behind--stood lookinground them in admiring astonishment. They were not left to wonder long. The curtain was drawn back, and the voice of some unseen person badethem go forward. 

They found themselves in a smaller room than the last, beautifullydecorated. The walls were painted a very pale blue, and large frescoesornamented each side of the chamber. Thick marble columns, highlypolished, jutted out into the room, and in the recess between each pairwas a marble bench, with cushions of crimson samite. Two walnut-woodchairs, furnished with crimson samite cushions, stood in the middle ofthe room. Small leaf-tables were fixed to the walls here and there. The floor was of waxed wood, very slippery to tread upon. At thefarther side of the room two doors stood open, side by side, the oneleading to a little oratory in the turret, the other to a balcony whichran round the tower. In one corner a young lady sat at an embroideryframe, and in another a little girl of seven years old, who deeplyinterested Avice, was feeding her pet peacock. In one of the chairs, with some fancy work in her hand, sat a lady whose age was abouttwenty-eight, and whose rich dress of gold-coloured samite, and the goldand pearl fillet which bound her hair, divided Avice's attention withthe child and the peacock. Agnes was dropping flurried courtesies toeverybody at once. Muriel, who seemed to have a much better notion ofwhat she ought to do, took a step forward, and knelt before the lady whosat in the chair. 

"Lady, " she said, "we are the Queen's servants. "

Queen Eleanor, for it was she, looked up on them with a smile. She wasa beautiful brunette, lively and animated when she spoke, but with aneasy-going, lazy expression when she did not. It struck Avice, who hadeyes for everything, and was making good use of them, that her Majestymight have brushed her rich dark hair a little smoother, and havefastened her diamond brooch less unevenly than she had done. 

It was the pleasanter side of Queen Eleanor which was being shown tothem. She could be very pleasant when she was pleased, and very kindand affable when she liked people. But she could be very harsh andtyrannical to those whom she did not like; and she was one of those manypeople with whom out of sight is out of mind. Let her see a sufferingchild, and she would be sorry and anxious to help; but a thousandsuffering people whom she did not see, even if something which she didhad made them suffer, were nothing at all to her. 

The Queen liked her visitors. She thought old Muriel looked reliable;she was amused with the bewildered reverence of Agnes; and as to Avice, a child more or less in Windsor Castle mattered very little. She woulddo to feed the peacock when Princess Margaret did not choose to attendto it. So the bargain was soon struck; and almost before she haddiscovered what was going to happen to her, Agnes found herself theday-nurse of the Lord Richard, the little Prince who was then in thecradle. Muriel was made mistress of the nurses; and even little Avicereceived a formal appointment as waiting-damsel on the PrincessMargaret, the little girl who was feeding the peacock. They were thendismissed from the royal presence. 

"Thou hadst better go with them, Margaret Bysset, " said the Queen, witha rather amused smile, to the young lady who had brought them in;"otherwise they may wander about all day. "

Guided by Margaret Bysset, they retraced their steps through the suiteof rooms, down winding stairs, and across the hall, to the great doorwhich led into the courtyard of the Castle. 

"Can you find your way now?" asked the young lady. 

"Nay, we can but try!" said Agnes. "Pray you, my mistress, how manychambers be there in this Castle?"

"Truly, I have not counted them, " was the laughing answer. 

"Eh, dear, but I marvel if I can ever find mine own when we come todwell here!"

"That will you soon enough. Look, here cometh your serving-man. Giveyou good morrow!"

A few days saw them safely housed in the Castle, where two of them wereto dwell for ten years before they returned to their own home atLincoln. But old Muriel was never to return. She lived through halfthat time, just long enough to hear of the death of Bishop Grosteste, who passed away on the ninth of October 1253. He literally died weepingfor the sins of his age. 

"Christ came into the world to save souls, " were the words uttered withhis last breath. "He who takes pains to ruin them, shall he not becalled Antichrist? God built the universe in six days; but it took Himthirty years to redeem fallen man. The Church can never be deliveredbut by the sword from the Egyptian bondage in which the Popes hold her. "

The good old Bishop could say no more. His voice broke down in tears;and with one great sob for England he yielded up his soul. 

CHAPTER THREE. 

AT UNCLE DAN'S SMITHY. 

The royal baby for whose benefit Muriel and Agnes had been engaged didnot live long; but he was succeeded by his brother Prince William, andbefore he was old enough to do without nurses, a little Princess cameupon the scene. She was the last of the family, and she lived threeyears and a half. After her death, the services of the nurses were nolonger needed. Queen Eleanor dismissed them with liberal wages andhandsome presents, and the two who were left--Agnes and Avice--determined to go back to Lincoln. Avice was now a young woman oftwenty. 

But when they reached their old home, they found many changes. The goodBishop Grosteste was gone, but his chaplain, Father Thomas, had lookedafter their interests, and Agnes found no difficulty in recovering herlittle property. Happily for them, their tenants were anxious to leavethe house, and before many days were over, they had slipped quietly backinto the old place. 

There were no banks in those days. A man's savings bank was an oldstocking or a tin mug. Agnes disposed of the money she had left fromthe Queen's payment, partly in the purchase of a cow, and partly in astocking, which was carefully locked up in the oak chest. They couldlive very comfortably on the produce of the cow and the garden, aided bywhat small sums they might earn in one way and another. And so theyears went on, until Avice in her turn married and was left a widow; butshe had no child, and when her mother died Avice was left alone. 

"I can never do to live alone, " she said to herself; "I must havesomebody to love and work for. "

And she began to think whom she could find to live with her. As she satand span in the twilight, one name after another occurred to her mind, but only to be all declined with thanks. 

There was her neighbour next door, Annora Goldhue: she had threedaughters. No, none of them would do. Joan was idle, and Amy wasconceited, and Frethesancia had a temper. Little Roese might have done, who lived with old Serena at the mill end; but old Serena could notspare her. At last, as Avice broke her thread for the fourth time, shepushed back the stool on which she was sitting, and rose with herdetermination taken, and spoke it out--

"I will go and see Aunt Filomena. "

Aunt Filomena lived about a mile from Lincoln, on the Newport road. Herhusband was a greensmith: that is to say, he worked in copper, andhawked his goods in the town when made. Avice lost no time in going, but set out at once. 

As she rounded the last turn in the lane, she heard the ring of DanielGreensmith's hammer on the anvil, and a few minutes' more walkingbrought her in sight of the smith himself, who laid down his hammer andshaded his eyes to see who was coming. 

"Why, Uncle Dan, don't you know me?" said Avice. 

"Nay, who is to know thee, when thou comes so seldom?" said old Dan, wiping his hot face with his apron. "Art thou come to see me or mydame?"

"I want to see Aunt Filomena. Is she in, Uncle Dan?"

"She's in, unless she's out, " said Dan unanswerably. "And her tongue'sin, too. It's at home, _that_ is. Was this morning, anyhow. What dostthou want of her?"

"Well, " said Avice, hesitating, "I want her advice--"

"Then thou wants what thou'lt get plenty of, " said Dan, with a comicaltwist of his mouth, as he turned over some long nails to find a suitableone. "I'll be fain if thou'lt cart away a middling lot, for there'smore coming my way than I've occasion for at this present. "

Avice laughed. "I daresay Aunt is overworked a bit, " she said. "Perhaps I can help her, Uncle Dan. Folks are apt to lose their temperswhen they are tired. "

"Some folks are apt to lose 'em whether they are tired or not, " said thesmith, with a shake of his grizzled head. "I've got six lasses, andfour on 'em takes after her. I could manage one, and maybe I mighttackle two; but when five on 'em gets a-top of a chap, why, he's downafore he knows it. I'm a peaceable man enough if they'd take mepeaceable. But them five rattling tongues, that gallops faster than SirOtho's charger up to the Manor--eh, I tell thee what, Avice, they dowear a man out!"

"Poor Uncle Dan! I should think they do. But are all the girls athome? I thought Mildred and Emma were to be bound apprentices inLincoln. "

"Fell through wi' Mildred, " said the smith. "Didn't offer good enough;and She"--by which pronoun he usually designated his vixenishwife--"wouldn't hear on it. Emma's bound, worse luck! I could ha' donewi' Emma. She and Bertha's the only ones as can be peaceable, like me. "

"Mildred's still at home, then?"

"Mildred's at home yet. And so's El'nor, and so's Susanna, and so'sAnkaret; and every one on 'em's tongue's worse nor t'other. And"--avery heavy sigh--"so's She!"

Avice knew that Uncle Dan was usually a man of fewer words than this. For him to be thus loquacious showed very strong emotion or irritationof some sort. She went round to the back door, and before she reachedit, she heard enough to let her guess the sort of welcome she mightexpect to receive. 

Just inside the open door stood Aunt Filomena, a thin, red-faced, voluble woman, with her arms akimbo, pouring out words as fast as theycould come; and in the yard, just outside the door, opposite to her, stood her daughter Ankaret, in exactly the same attitude, also thin, red-faced, and voluble. The two were such precise counterparts of oneanother that Avice had hard work to keep her gravity. Inside the house, Susanna and Mildred, and outside Eleanor, were acting as interestedspectators; the funniest part of the scene being that neither of themlistened to a word said by the other, but each ran at express speed onher own rails. The youngest daughter, Bertha, was nowhere to be seen. 

For a minute the whole appearance of things struck Avice as soexcessively comical that she could scarcely help laughing. But then sherealised how shocking it really was. What sort of mothers, in theirturn, could such daughters be expected to make? She waited for amoment's pause, and when it occurred, which was not for some minutes, she said--

"Aunt Filomena!"

"Oh, you're there, are you?" demanded the amiable Filomena. "You justthank the stars you've got no children! If ever an honest woman wereplagued with six good-for-nothing, sluttish, slatternly shrews of girlsas me! Here's that Ankaret--I've told her ten times o'er to wash thetubs out, and get 'em ready for the pickling, and I come to see if theyare done, and they've never been touched, and my lady sitting upstairsa-making her gown fine for Sunday! I declare, I'll--"

Her intentions were drowned in an equally shrill scream from MissAnkaret. "You never told me a word--not once! And 'tain't my place toscour them tubs out, neither. It's Susanna as always--"

"Then I won't!" broke in Susanna. "And you might be ashamed ofyourself, I should think, to put such messy work on me when Eleanor--"

"You'd best let me alone!" fiercely chimed in Eleanor. 

"Oh dear, dear!" cried Avice, putting her hands over her ears. "My dearcousins, are you going to drive each other deaf? Why, I would ratherscour out twenty tubs than fight over them like this! Are you notChristian women? Come, now, who is going to scour the tubs? I willtake one myself if you will do the others. Who will join me?"

And Avice began to turn up her sleeves in good earnest. "No, Avice, don't you; you'll spoil your gown, " said Eleanor, looking ashamed of hervehemence. "See, I'll get them done. Mildred, won't you help?"

"Well, I don't mind if I do, " was the rather lazy answer. 

But Ankaret and Susanna declined to touch the work, the latter cynicallyoffering to lend her apron to Avice. 

As Avice scrubbed away, she began to regret her errand. To be afflictedwith such a lifelong companion as one of these lively young ladies wouldbe far worse than solitude. But where was the youngest?--the quietlittle Bertha, who took after her peaceable father, and whom Avice hadrarely heard to speak? She asked Eleanor for her youngest sister. 

"Oh, she's somewhere, " said Eleanor carelessly. 

"She took her work down to the brook, " added Mildred. "She's beencrying her eyes out over Emma's going. "

"Ay, Emma and Bertha are the white chicks among the black, " saidEleanor, laughing; "they'll miss each other finely, I've no doubt. "

Avice finished her work, returned Susanna's apron, and instead ofrequesting advice from her Aunt, went down to the brook in search ofBertha. She found her sitting on a green bank, with very red eyes. 

"Well, my dear heart?" said Avice kindly to Bertha. 

The kind tone brought poor Bertha's tears back. She could only sobout--"Emma's gone!"

"And thou art all alone, my child, " said Avice, stroking her hair. Sheknew that loneliness in a crowd is the worst loneliness of all. "Well, so am I; and mine errand this very day was to see if I could prevail onthy mother to grant me one of her young maids to dwell with me. Whatsayest thou? shall I ask her for thee?"

"O Cousin! I would be so--" Bertha's ecstatic tone went no farther. Itwas in quite a different voice that she said--"But then there's Father!Oh no, Cousin. Thank you so much, but it won't do. "

"That will we ask Father, " said Avice. 

"Father couldn't get on, with me and Emma both away, " said Bertha, in atone which she tried to make cheerful. "He'd be quite lost--I know hewould. "

"Well, but--" began Avice. 

"Then he'd find his self again as fast as he could, " said a gruff voice, and they looked up in surprise to see old Dan standing behind them. "Thou's done well, lass. Thou's ta'en advice o' thy own kind heart, andnot o' other folks. Thee take the little maid to thee, and I'll seethee safe out on't. She'll be better off a deal wi' thee, and she cansee our Emma every day then. So dry thy eyes, little un; it'll be allright, thou sees. "

"But, Father, you'll not do without me!"

"Don't thee be conceited, lass. " Old Dan was trying hard to swallow alump in his throat. "I'll see thee by nows and thens. Thou'll be adeal better off. And there's--there's El'nor. "

"Eleanor's not _always_ in a good temper, " said Bertha doubtfully. 

"She's best o' t'other lot, " said old Dan. "She's none so bad, by nowsand thens. I shall do rarely, thou'll see. But, Avice--dost thou thinkthou could just creep off like at th' lee-side o' th' house, wi' thelittle maid, afore She sees thee? When thou'rt gone I'll tell her, andthen I'll have a run for't till it's o'er. She's better to take whenfirst comings-off is done. She'll smooth down i' th' even, as like asnot, and then I'll send El'nor o'er wi' the little maid's bits o' gear. Or, if she willn't go, I can bring 'em myself, when work's done. Let'sget it o'er afore She finds aught out!"

Avice scarcely knew whether to laugh or to be sorry. Poor, weak, easy-tempered Dan! They took his advice, and crept round by thelee-side of the house, under cover of the hedge. When they were out ofsight, with a belt of trees between, old Dan took leave of them. 

"Thou'll be good to the little maid, Avice, " said he. "I know thouwill, or I'd never ha' let her go. But she'll be better off--ay, a dealbetter off, she'll be. She gets put upon, she does. And beingyoungest, thou sees--I say, my lass, thou'd best call her aunt. She'sso much elder than thee; it'll sound better nor cousin. "

"Very good, Father, " said Bertha. "But, O Father! who'll stitch yourbuttons on, and comb your hair when you rest after work, and sing toyou? O Father, let me go back!"

"Tut, tut, lass!" said old Dan, clearing his throat energetically. "Ifone wife and four daughters cannot keep a man's buttons on, there'ssomewhat wanting somewhere. I shall miss thy singing, I dare say; but Ican come down, thou knows, of a holy-day even, to hear thee. And as tocombin'--stars knows I shall get enough o' that, and a bit o'er that Ican spare for old Christopher next door. He's got no wife, and only onelass, and she's a peaceable un. He's a deal to be thankful for. Now, God be wi' ye both. Keep a good heart, and step out. I'll let ye get abit on afore I tell Her. And then I'll run for't!"

Avice and Bertha "stepped out" accordingly; and as nobody came afterthem, they concluded that things were tolerably smooth. They did notsee anybody from the smithy until two days later; and then, rather latein the evening--namely, about six o'clock--Dan himself made hisappearance, with one bundle slung on a stick over his shoulder, andanother carried like a baby. 

"Well!" said he, as he sat down on the settle, and wiped his hot facewith his apron. "Well!"

"O Father, I'm so glad!" said Bertha. "Are those my things? How goodof you to bring them!"

"Ay, they be, " said Dan emphatically. "Take 'em and make the best thoucan of 'em; for thou'll get no more where they came from, I can tellthee. "

"Was Aunt Filomena very much put out?" asked Avice, in a rather penitenttone. 

"She wasn't put out o' nothing, " answered Dan, "except conduct becominga Christian woman. She was turned into a wild dragon, all o'er clawsand teeth, and there was three little dragons behind her, and they wasall a-top o' me together. If El'nor hadn't thought better on't, andcome and stood by me, there wouldn't have been much o' me to bring thesehere. "

"Then you did not run, Uncle Dan?" replied Avice. 

"She clutched me, lass!" responded Dan, with awful solemnity. "Andt'others, they had me too. Thee try to run with a wild dragon holdingon to thy hair, and three more to thy arms and legs--just do! I wonderI'm not tore to bits--I do. Howsome'er, here I be; and I just wish Icould stop. Ay, I do so!"

And Dan's apron took another journey round his face. 

"Uncle Dan, would you like to take Bertha back?" was Avice'sself-sacrificing suggestion. 

"Don't name it!" cried Dan, dropping the apron. "Don't name it! Therewouldn't be an inch on her left by morning light! I wonder there's anyo' me. Eh, but this world is a queer un. Is she a good lass, Avice?"

"Yes, indeed she is, " said Avice. 

"I'm fain to hear it; and I'm fain thou's fallen on thy feet, my littleun. And, Avice--if thou knows of any young man as wants to gosoldiering, and loves a fray, just thee send him o'er to th' smithy, andhe shall ha' the pick o' th' dragons. I hope he'll choose Ankaret. He'll get my blessing!"

Aunt Filomena seemed to have washed her hands of her youngest daughter. She never came near them; and Avice thought it the better part of valourto keep away from the smithy. When Emma had a holiday, which was a raretreat, she often spent it with her sister; and on still rarer occasionsEleanor paid a short visit. But the only frequent visitor was old UncleDan, and he came whenever he could, and always seemed sorry to go home. 

CHAPTER FOUR. 

BABY. 

A very quiet life was led by Avice and Bertha. The house work was doneby the two in the early morning--cleaning, washing, baking, churning, and brewing, as they were severally needed; and in the afternoon theysat down to their work, enlivened either by singing or conversation. Sometimes both were silent, and when that was the case, unknown toAvice, Bertha was generally watching her features, and trying to readtheir meaning. At length, one evening after a long silence, shesuddenly broke the stillness with a blunt question. 

"Aunt, I wish you would tell me what you are thinking of when you lookso. "

"How do I look, Bertha?"

"As if you were looking at something which nobody could see butyourself. Sometimes it seems to be something pretty, and sometimessomething shocking; but oftener than either, something just a littlesad, and yet as if there were pleasantness about it. I don't knowexactly how to describe it. "

"That will do. When a woman comes to fifty years, little Bertha, thereare plenty of things in the past of her life, which nobody can see whodid not go through them with her. And often those who did so cannot seethem. That will leave a scar upon one which makes not a scratch uponanother. "

"But of what were you thinking, Aunt, if I may know?"

"That thou mayest. I fancy, when thou spakest, I was thinking--as Ivery often do--about my little Lady. "

"Now, if Aunt Avice is _very_ good, " said Bertha insinuatingly, and withbrightened eyes, "that means a story. "

Aunt Avice smiled. "Ay, thou shalt have thy story. Only let us be surefirst that all is done which need be. Cast a few more chips on thefire, and light another pine-torch; that is burnt nigh out. And see thybodkin on the floor--careless child!"

Bertha jumped up and obeyed. From one corner of the room, where lay aheap of neatly-cut faggots, she brought a handful, and threw it into thewide fire-place, which stretched across half one side of the room, andhad no grate, the fire burning on the stone hearth: then from a pile oflong pointed stakes of pitch pine, she brought one, lighted it, and setit in an iron frame by the fire-place made for that purpose; and lastly, she picked up from the brick floor an article of iron, about a foot inlength, and nearly as thick as her little finger, which she called abodkin, but which we should think very rude and clumsy indeed. 

"Hast thou heard, Bertha, " said Avice, "that when I was young, I dweltfor a season in the Castle of Windsor, and my mother was nurse to someof the children of the Lord King that then was? Brothers and sisterthey were of our Lord King Edward that reigns now. "

Bertha's eyes brightened. She liked, as all girls do, to hear a storywhich had to do with great people. 

"No, Aunt Avice, I never knew that. Won't you tell me all about it?"

So Avice began and told her what we know already--how the Bishop hadrecommended Agnes to the Queen, and all about the journey, and theCastle, and the Queen herself. Then she went on to tell the rest of thestory. 

"We lived nigh five years, " said Avice, "in the Castle of Windsor--untilthe Lord Richard was dead, and the Lord William was nearly four yearsold. Then the Lady Queen removed to the royal Palace of Westminster, for the Lord King was gone over seas, and she with Earl Richard hisbrother was left to keep England. It was in August, the year of ourLord 1253, at we took up our abode in Thorney Island, where the Palaceof Westminster stands. It is a marshy place--not over healthy, somefolks say; but I never was ill while we dwelt there. And it was there, on Saint Katherine's Day"--which is the 25th of November--"that ourlittle Lady was born. Her royal mother named her Katherine, after theblessed saint. She was the loveliest babe that eye could rest on, andshe was christened with great pomp. And on Saint Edward's Day, when theLady Queen was purified"--namely, churched--"there was such a feast as Inever saw again while I dwelt with her. The provisions brought in forthat feast were fourteen wild boars, twenty-four swans, one hundred andthirty-five rabbits, two hundred and fifty partridges, sixteen hundredand fifty fowls, fifty hares, two hundred and fifty wild ducks, thirty-six geese, and sixty-one thousand eggs. "

"Only think!" cried Bertha. "Did you get some, Aunt?"

"Surely I did, child. The Lady Queen, I told thee, was then keeper ofEngland, for the Lord King was away across the seas; and good provisionshe made. Truly, she was free-handed enough at spending. Would she hadbeen as just in the way she came by her money!"

"Why, Aunt, what mean you?" asked Bertha, when Avice expressed her wishthat Queen Eleanor had been as just in gaining money as she was liberalin spending it. 

"Why, child, taxes came heavy in those days. When the Lord King neededmoney, he sent home to his treasurer, and it was had as he could getit--sometimes by selling up divers rich folks, or by levying a good sumfrom the Jews, or any way man could; not always by equal tenths orfifteenths, as now, which comes not nigh so heavy on one or two when itis equally meted out to all. But never was there king like our lateLord King Henry (whom God pardon) for squeezing money out of his poorsubjects. Yet old folks did use to say his father King John was as illor worse. "

Taxes, in those days, were a very different thing from what they arenow, and were far more at the mere pleasure of the King, not only as tothe collecting of them, but as to the spending. Ignorant people fancythat this is the case still; but it is not so. Queen Victoria has nomoney from the taxes for her private spending. When she became Queen, she gave up all the land belonging to her as Queen, on condition thather daughters should be portioned, and that she should receive a certainsum of money every year, of less value than the land she gave up; sothat it would be fraud and breach of trust in the people if they did notkeep their word to pay the sum agreed on to the Queen. There is so muchmisunderstanding on this point that it is worth while to mention it. 

"Then were the King and Queen--" Bertha began. 

Avice answered the half-asked question. "They were like other folks, child. They liked their own way, and tried to get it. And they likedfine clothes, and great feasts, and plenty of company, and so forth; sothey spent their money that way. I'll not say they were bad folks, though they did some bad things they were folks that only thought whatthey liked, and did it; and folks that do that are sure to bring sorrowto themselves and others too, whether they be kings and queens or cooksand haymakers. The kings and queens can do it on a larger scale; thatis all the difference. There are few enough that think what God likes, as holy Bishop Robert did, and like to do His will better than theirown; those that do scatter happiness around them, as the other sortscatter misery. 

"Well, after a while, the Lady Queen left England, to join the Lord Kingacross seas; but before she went, she took our little Lady down to theCastle of Windsor to the rest of the King's children. There was firstthe Lady Beatrice, who was a maiden of twelve years; and the LordEdmund, a very pretty little boy of nine; and the Lord William, who wasbut four; and there were also with them other children of different agesthat were brought up with them; but only one was near our little Lady'sage, or had much to do with her. That was Alianora de Montfort, daughter of Earl Simon of Leicester, that bold baron that headed thelords against the King; and her mother was the King's own sister, theLady Alianora. She was fifteen months older than our little Lady, andbeing youngest of all, the two used to play together. A sweet child shewas, too; but not like my own little Lady--there never was a child likeher. "

"What was she like, Aunt?"

"Tell me what the angels are like in Heaven, and thou shalt hear then. She is an angel now--she hath been one these three-and-twenty years. But methinks there can have been little to change in her face when sheblossomed into a cherub, and the wings would unfold themselves from heras by nature. Never a child like her!--no, there never was one. Shehad bright, dark eyes, wonderful eyes--eyes that her whole soul shonein, and that took in everything which passed. She spoke with her eyes;she had no other way. The souls of other children came out of theirlips; but she had not spent many months in this lower world, before wesaw with bitter apprehension and deep sorrow that God had sealed hersweet lips with eternal silence. She saw all; she heard nothing; shecould never speak. My darling was deaf and dumb. "

"O Aunt Avice!"

"Ay, verily at times I wondered if she were indeed an angel that God hadsent down to earth, for whose pure lips our English was too rough, andour French too rude, and who could only speak the tongue they speak inHeaven. She went back but whence she came; we were not fit company forher. Methinks she was sent to let our earthbound hearts have oneglimpse of that upper world; and when her work was done, her Father sentfor her back home. 

"Though our little Lady could never speak, yet long before we discoveredthat, we found how lively, and earnest, and intelligent she was. As Itold thee, she talked with her eyes. Nothing could be done in herpresence but she must see and know all about it. A little pull at mygown would tell me she was there; and then I turned to see the brighteager eyes looking into mine, and asking me as plainly as eyes could askto let her know all about it. She would never rest till she knew whatshe wanted. Ay me, those eager eyes look into angels' faces now, andmaybe into the face of God upon the throne. "

"But, Aunt, how could she understand, if she could not hear?"

"God told her somehow, child. He taught her, not we. We did our best, truly; but our best would have been a poor business, if He had not takenher in hand. Many a time, before I had finished trying to explainsomething to her, that quick little nod would come which meant, `Iunderstand. ' Then she had certain signs for different things. She madethose herself; we never taught them to her. She stroked what she liked, as man would stroke a dog; when she disliked anything, she made a feintof throwing her open hand out from her, as though she were pushing itaway. She had odd little ways of indicating different persons, bysomething in them which struck her. Master Russell, the Queen's clerk, and keeper of the royal children, used often to have a sprig of mint orthyme in his lips as he went about; her sign for him was a bit of stickor thread between her lips. For the priest, she tolled a bell. For theLady Beatrice, her sister, who had a little airy way of putting her headon one side when anything vexed her, and my Lord Henry de Lacy, whopouted if he were cross (which he was pretty often)--my little Ladyimitated them exactly. The Lady Alianora flourished her hands when shespoke; that was the sign for her. For the Lord King, her father, whoseleft eyelid drooped over his eye, she pulled her own down. She had somesuch sign for everybody. She noticed everything. "

"Could she not say one word, Aunt?"

"Yes, she could say three. Verily, sometimes I marvelled if she mightnot have been taught more; but we knew not how, and how she got hold ofthose three we could never tell. "

"What were they?"

"They were, `up, ' `who, ' and `poor. '"

"Well, she could not do much with those. "

"Could she not! `Who' asked all her questions. It answered for who, what, where, when, how, and why. She went on saying it until weunderstood and replied to the sense in which she meant it. `Poor' wasthe word of emotion; it signified `I pity you, ' `I love you, ' `I amsorry, ' and `Forgive me. ' And sometimes it meant, `Forgive him, ' or`Don't you feel sorry for her?' And I think `up' served for everythingelse. "

"Aunt, " said Bertha softly, "how did you teach the little Lady to pray?She could tell her beads, I suppose; but would she know what theymeant?"

For Bertha, like everybody else at that time, thought it necessary tokeep count of her prayers. Prayer, in her eyes, was not so muchcommunion with God, as it was a kind of charm which in someunaccountable way brought you good luck. 

"Beads would have meant nothing to her but toys, " was Avice's reply. "The Lady de la Mothe taught her the holy sign"--by which Avice meantthe cross--"and led her to the image of blessed Mary, that she might doit before her. But I do not think she ever properly understood that Sheseemed only to have an idea that it was something she must do when shesaw an image; and she did it to the statue of the Lady Queen in thegreat hall. We could not make her understand that one image was not thesame thing as another image. But I fancy she had some idea--strange anddim it might be--of what we meant when we knelt and put our handstogether and looked up. I know she did it very often, without telling--always at night, before she slept. But it was strange that she neverwent to the holy images at that time; she always seemed to go away fromthem, and kneel down in a corner. And in her last illness, severaltimes, coming into the chamber, I found her lying with her hands foldedin prayer, and her eyes lifted up to Heaven. Perhaps God Himself toldher how to speak to Him. One of the strangest things of all was whenthe little Lord William died; she was nearly three years old then. Shehad been very fond of her little brother; he was nearest her age of allher brothers and sisters, though he was almost four years older thanherself. She came to me sobbing bitterly, and with her little cry of`Who? who?' I took it to mean `What has happened to him?' and I wascompletely puzzled how to explain it to her. But all at once, while Iwas beating my brains to think what I could say that would make hercomprehend it, she told me herself what I could not tell her. Makingthe sign for the little Lord who was dead, she laid her head upon herhand, and closed her eyes; and then all at once, with a peculiar gracethat I never saw in any child but herself, she lifted her arms, fluttering her fingers like a bird flaps its wings, and gazing up intothe sky, while she said, `Up! up!' in a kind of rapture. And I couldonly smile and bow my head to the truth which God had told her. " [SeeNote 1. ]

"But how could she know it?" asked astonished Bertha. 

Avice shook her head. "I cannot explain it; I can only tell whathappened. She was always very tender-hearted; she never could bear tosee any quarrelling, or cruelty, or injustice. If two of the childrenstrove together, our little Lady would run to them with a face of deepdistress, and take a hand of each and draw them together, as though shewere begging them to be friends; and if she could not get them to kisseach other, she would kiss first one and then the other. I missed herone day, and, after hunting a long while, I found her in the gallerybefore a fresco of our Lord upon the Cross. She was stroking it andkissing it, with tears in her eyes; and she turned to me saying, `Poor!poor!' Her eyes always filled with tears when she saw the crucifix. The moon used to interest her exceedingly; she would sit and watch it, and kiss her hand to it. But, dear me! how the time must be getting on!Jump up, Bertha, and prepare supper. "

Bertha folded up her work and put it aside. She drew one of the highstools between her aunt and herself, and put out upon it the two woodentrenchers and two tin mugs. Going to a corner cupboard, Bertha broughtout a few cakes of black bread, which she set on a smaller stool besidethe other; and then, lifting a pan upon the fire, she threw into it somepieces of mutton fat. As soon as these were melted, Bertha broke foureggs into them, stirring this indigestible mixture with a woodenthible--an article of which my northern readers will not require adescription, but the southern must be told that it is a long flatinstrument with which porridge is stirred. For the eggs were not merelyfried in the fat, but were beaten up with it, the dish when finishedbearing the name of franche-mule. A sprig or two of dried herbs werethen shred into the pan, and the whole poured out, half on each of thetrenchers. It is more than possible that the extraordinarily rich, incongruous, indigestible dishes wherein our fathers delighted, may havesomething to do with the weaker digestions of their children. The tinmugs were filled with weak ale from a barrel which stood under theladder. It was an oddity at that time to drink water. 

When supper was finished, Bertha washed the mugs and scraped thetrenchers clean (water never touched those), putting them back in theirplaces. She had scarcely ended when a tap was heard at the door. 

"Step in, Hildith, " said Bertha, as she opened it. "Christ give thee agood even!"

"The like to thee, " was the answer, as a rather worn-looking woman camein. "Mistress Avice, your servant. Pray you, would you lend me theloan of a tinder-box? I am but now come home from work, and am thatweary I may scarce move; and yon careless Jaket hath let the fire out, and I must needs kindle the same again ere I may dress supper for thechildren. "

It was no wonder if Hildith looked worn out, or if she could not afforda tinder-box. That precious article cost a penny, and her wages werefifteen pence a year. If we do a sum to find out what that would benow, when money is much more plentiful, we shall find that Hildith'swages come to twenty-two shillings and sixpence, and the tinder-box wasworth eighteen-pence. We should fancy that nobody could live on such asum. But we must remember two things: first, they then did a great dealfor themselves which we pay for; they spun and wove their own linen andwoollen, did their own washing, brewed their own ale and cider, madetheir own butter and cheese, and physicked themselves with herbs. Secondly, prices were very much lower as respected the necessaries oflife; bread was four loaves, or cakes, for a penny, of the very bestquality; a lamb or a goose cost fourpence, eight chickens were sold forfivepence, and twenty-four eggs for a penny. Clothing stuffs were dear, but then (as people sometimes say) they wore "for everlasting, " andladies of rank would send half-worn gowns to one another as veryhandsome presents. Fourpence was a good price to give for a pair ofshoes, and a halfpenny a day for food was a liberal allowance. 

"Any news to-night, Hildith?" asked Avice, as she handed her neighbourthe tinder-box. 

"Well, nay; without you call it news that sheriffs man brought word thismorrow that the Lord King had granted the half of her goods to oldBarnaba o' the Lichgate. "

"She that was a Jew, and was baptised at Whitsuntide? I am glad to hearthat. "

"Ay, she. I am not o'er sorry; she is a good neighbour, Jew though shebe. "

"Then I reckon she will tarry here, and not go to dwell in the House ofConverts in London town?"

"Marry, she will so, if she have any wisdom teeth left. I would notlike to be carried away from all I know, up to yon big town, though theydo say the houses be made o' gold and silver. "

Avice smiled, for she knew better. 

"Nay, Hildith, London town is built of brick and stone like Lincoln. "

"Is it, now? I always heard it was made o' gold. But aren't there avast sight o' folk there? nigh upon ten thousand?"

"Ay, and more. "

"However do they get victuals for them all?"

"I got mine when I lived there, " said Avice, laughing. 

"And don't they burn sea-coal?"

"They did once; it is forbidden now. "

"Dirty, poisonous stuff! I wouldn't touch it. Well, good-even. Shutthe door quick, Bertha, and don't watch me out o' sight; 'tis theunluckiest thing man can do. "

And Bertha believed it, as she showed by shutting the door. 

Old Barnaba, the Jewess, had been dealt with tenderly. In those days, if a Jew were baptised, he forfeited all he had to the King. Mostunaccountable it is that any Christian country should have let such alaw exist for an hour! These destitute Jews, however, were provided forin the House of Converts, in London, which stood at the bottom ofChancery Lane, between it and Saint Dunstan's Church. 

It was bed-time soon after. Avice put away her distaff, Bertha foldedup her sewing, and they mounted the ladder. This was about seveno'clock, which was then as late an hour as it was thought thatrespectable people ought to be about. But by two o'clock the nextmorning, Bertha was sweeping the kitchen, and Avice carding flax in thecorner. They did not trouble themselves about breakfast; it was anunknown luxury, except for people who were very old or very delicate. Two meals a day were the rule: dinner, at nine in the morning: supper, at three in the afternoon. In those days they lived in a far harder andless comfortable way than we do, and they had generally better health. But, it must be admitted, they did not live nearly so long, and theinfant mortality among them was very great. 

Morning was no time for story-telling. The rooms had to be swept, thebread to be baked, the clothes to be washed, the pigs and chickens to befed. Moreover, to-day was the first day of the Michaelmas fair, andthings must be bought in to last till Christmas. The active work wasfinished by about seven o'clock. Dinner was now got ready. Itconsisted of two bowls of broth, then boiled dumplings, and lastly somestewed giblets. Having made things tidy, our friends now tied onwoollen hoods, and each taking down from the rafter-hooks a capaciousbasket, they went forth to do their shopping. 

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Note 1. The peculiar ways attributed to the little Princess, andespecially this incident, are taken from an account of a real deaf anddumb child, published many years ago. There was certainly somethingabout the Princess which her attendants considered wonderful andbeautiful. 

CHAPTER FIVE. 

THE DUMB PLAYMATES. 

Out into the Michaelmas fair our friends went. 

In these days, when fairs have quite changed their character, we cannoteasily form a notion of what they once were. The fair, held in everytown four times a year, was a very important matter. There were muchfewer shops than now; and not only in the town, but from all thesurrounding villages people flocked to the fair, to lay in food andclothes and all sorts of necessaries, enough to last till the nextfair-day. They had very little fresh butcher's meat, and very fewvegetables except what they grew themselves; so they ate numbers ofthings salted which we have fresh. Not only salt fish and salt neat, but salt cabbage formed a great part of their diet. The consequence ofall this salt food was that they suffered dreadfully from scurvy. Butthey did not run to the doctor, for except in rare instances there wasno doctor to run to! All doctors were clergymen then, and there werevery few of them. In the large towns there were apothecaries, orchemists, who often prescribed for people; and there were "wise women"who knew a good deal about herbs, and sometimes gave good medicines, along with a great deal of foolish nonsense in the way of charms and allsorts of silly fancies. At that time, ladies were taught a good dealabout medicine, and a benevolent lady was often the doctor for a largeneighbourhood. But we are wandering away from the Michaelmas fair, andwe must come back. 

The fair was a very busy scene. In some places it was hard work to getalong at all. The booths were set up, not in the streets but in thechurchyards, the market place, and on any waste space available. Andwhat with the noise of business, the hum of gossip, the shouts ofcompeting sellers, and the sound of hundreds of clogs on the roundpaving-stones, it may be readily supposed that quiet was far away. 

Avice's first business was to lay in a stock of salt meat and salt fish. Very little of either was used fresh, for it was not obtainable: andstill less would have been used so far as fish is concerned, had not thelaw, alike of the Church and of the State, compelled it to be eatenthroughout Lent, and on every Friday in the year. Little enough fishwould anybody have touched then, but for that provision. Avice boughthalf of a salted calf, which cost a shilling; five hundred herrings, athalf-a-crown; a bushel of salt, at threepence (which was dear);twenty-five stock-fish, at two shillings; a quarter of a sheep, atfourpence; a quarter of wheat, at six shillings; a quarter of oats, atfive shillings; half a quarter of salt cabbage, at five shillings; andfive pounds of figs, at three-halfpence a pound. This was her provisionfor the three months which would elapse before the Christmas fair. Shethen went to the drapery stalls, and laid in two hoods, for herself andBertha, at a shilling each; ten ells of russet, to serve for two gowns, at eighteen-pence the ell; twelve ells of serge, at three-halfpence theell; two pairs of shoes, at fourpence each. The russet was intended fortheir best dresses; the serge for common. Considering how very littlewent to make a garment, it seems likely that our ancestors wove theirstuff a good deal wider than we do. Avice also laid in a few otherarticles of different kinds: a brass pot, which cost her 2 shillings 2pence; five pounds of tallow, at three-halfpence a pound, and as many ofwax at sixpence; wax was largely used for a variety of objects. Herlast and costliest purchase she would have been better without. It wasa painted and gilded image of Saint Katherine, and cost fifteenshillings. But Avice, though a good woman according to her light, hadenjoyed very little light, and did not understand half so well as we dothat she might go straight to God through the new and living way openedupon the cross, without the intervention of any mediator except the LordJesus. She thought she must pray through a saint; and she had no ideaof praying unless she could see something to pray to. Her old image hadlost much of its paint, and half an arm, and its nose was hopelesslydamaged. Therefore, as she must have one, poor Avice thought it best tobuy a new one, rather than have her old saint tinkered up. Alas for thegods or the mediators who require to be tinkered!

By the time that these purchases were made, and the goods brought home, it was not far from the supper hour; and Bertha prepared that meal byboiling a dish of salt cabbage from one of the barrels. This, withblack bread and ale, made their supper. 

The meal was just ready, and Avice had put away her carding, havingfinished that kind of work for the day, when a rap at the door wasfollowed by the lifting of the latch, and the old smith put in his head. 

"Any room for a man, have ye?"

"Plenty for you, Uncle Dan, " answered Avice heartily; and Bertha's eyeslighted up at the sight of her father. 

Dan came forward and sat down on the stool which Bertha set for him. 

"Has it not been a charming day?" said Avice. 

"Ay, it's fine weather i' Lincoln, " was Dan's dry answer. "Up atsmithy, it's none so bad neither--yet. Just a touch of thunder we hadthis morning, --a bit of a grumble i' th' distance like: but I've knownworser storms a deal. Ay, I have so!"

Avice quite understood what kind of storm he meant. 

"How do you get on without me, Father?" asked Bertha. 

"Well, I'll not say I don't miss thee, my singing bird; but I'm willing, when it's for thy good. I've got--let me see--two buttons left o' myblouse, and I think there's one o' my flannel shirt, but I'm none sosure. It's rather troublesome, for sure, when there's none o' th'sleeves; they keep for ever a-slippin' up man's arm; but I could put upwi' that easy if there was nought more. It's true I don't want to pull'em down while even comes. "

"Oh, Father, let me sew you some on!" cried Bertha. 

"So thou shall, " said Dan. "But I've a bit o' news for thee, lass. Susanna's to be wed. "

"With whom, Uncle?"

"Michael, cartwright, at corner. "

"Is it a good match?"

"He's got his match, and she's got hern. "

"They are well matched, then, " said Bertha, laughing. 

"They're a pair, " said Dan, grimly. "He's eagre, and she's mustard; andthey'll none mix ill--but they'll set folks' throats a-fire as meddleswi' 'em. "

Eagre is the old English word for vinegar, which is just "wine-eagre. "It means anything sharp and acid. 

"Is Aunt Filomena pleased?" asked Avice. 

"She's never pleased wi' nothing, " was the reply of her unfortunatehusband. "She give him lots o' sauce when he first come, and he's hadanother spoonful every time since. He gives it her every bit as hot--Iwill say that for him. His mother went by name o' old Maud Touchup, andhe doth her no disfavour. She knew how to hit folks--_she_ did. AndMichael's a chip o' th' old block. "

"A little more cabbage, Uncle Dan?"

"Nay, I thank thee. I must be going home, I reckon. Eh, but you'repeaceable here! I reckon man could sleep i' this house, and not bewaked up wi' jarring and jangling. I tell thee what, Avice--when thebig folks up to London town runs short o' money, I wonder they don'tclap a bit of a tax on women's tongues! It'd bring 'em in a tunful in aweek, _that_ would. "

"How would you collect it, Uncle Dan?"

"Nay, there thou floors me. They'd best send down a chap all over steelto th' smithy, He'd get plucked o' pieces else. Well, God be wi' thee, Avice. God bless thee, Bertha, my lass. Good-night!"

And Uncle Dan disappeared into the darkness. There were no street lampsthen. Every man had to carry his own lantern, unless he chose to runthe risk of breaking his neck over the round stones which formed thestreets, or the rough ground, interspersed with holes and pits, to befound everywhere else. 

They now sat down to work for the rest of the evening, Avice on thesettle in the corner, Bertha on one of the low stools which she broughtup to the hearth. 

"Lack-a-day! what have I forgot!" said Avice as Bertha drew up her stooland unfolded the apron she was making. "I thought to have asked NoraGoldhue for a sprig of betony, or else purslane. 'Tis o'er lateto-night, and verily I am too weary to go forth again. "

"Have you bad dreams, Aunt?" asked Bertha, knowing that a sprig ofeither of those herbs under the pillow was believed to drive them away. 

"Ay, child; they have troubled me these four nights past, but last nightmore especially. "

No wonder, after a supper on franche-mule! But it never occurred toignorant Avice that supper and dreams could have anything to do with oneanother. 

"Shall I fetch you a laurel leaf, Aunt?" suggested Bertha. 

"Ay, do, child; maybe that shall change the luck. Best go ere it rain, too; and that will not be long, for I saw a black snail in the channelas we came in. "

Bertha tied on her hood, and ran out to the house of the next-doorneighbour, who had a laurel in her garden, to beg a few of its leaves, which were supposed to bring pleasant dreams. Having placed these underher aunt's bolster, she sat down again to her work, and Avice resumedher interrupted story. 

"It was in July, 1254, when our little Lady was but eight months old, that the Lady Queen set forth to join the Lord King in Gascony. Therewere many ships taken up for her voyage, amongst which were the _Savoy_, the _Falcon_, and the _Baroness_, that was my Lord of Leicester's ship. In the ship wherein the Lady Queen sailed, was built a special chamberfor her, of polished wood, for the which three hundred planks were sentfrom the forest to Portsmouth. But so short was she of money, that shewas compelled to bid the Treasurer to send her all the cups and basinswhich the King had of silver, and all gold in coin or leaf that could befound in the treasuries. Moreover, the Jews throughout England weredistrained for five thousand marks, for the ransom of their bodies, andtheir wives and little ones, and by sale of their lands and houses. TheLady Queen took with her divers pieces of English cloth for the LordKing, seeing that French cloth is not nigh so good. Some things alsoshe commanded for the children, who were to tarry at Windsor during herabsence. Twenty-four silver spoons were made, and fifty wild animalstaken for their provision in the park at Guildford. Robes were servedout, furred with hare's fur, for Edmund the King's son and Henry deLacy; four robes for the gentlewomen that had the care of the children;and for Richard the chaplain, Master Simon de Wycumb the keeper, andMaster Godwyn the cook: these were of sendal. And there were robesfurred with lamb for the King's wards, and for John the Varlet, andJulian the Rocker, and my mother, and me thine aunt. " [See Note 1. ]

Both to Avice and Bertha it seemed quite a matter of course that theJews should find the money when the King wanted silk, or the King'schildren silver spoons. 

"But it seems to me, Aunt, " suggested Bertha, "that the Lady Queen musthave spent all her money before she started. "

"Oh no! the money was for the Lord King. In truth, I know not whethershe paid for the other things. But I did hear that as soon as the LordKing knew she would come, and that she was bringing with her so muchmoney and plate, he began to spend with both hands on his side of thesea. He sent at once for six cloths of gold that the Queen and LordEdward might offer in the churches of Bordeaux when they should arrivethere; he commanded to be made ready a fair jewel for Saint Edward theMartyr, and a hundred pounds of jewels for Saint Edward the King, anddivers more for Saint Thomas of Canterbury, all which were offered whenhe and the Queen returned home in December. There came in also, for theKing's coming back, many frails of figs, raisins, dates, cinnamon, saffron, pepper, ginger, and such like; I remember seeing them unpackedin Antioch Chamber, the little chamber by the garden. "

"And what did it all cost, Aunt?"

"I know not, child. Maybe he never paid for those. He used to pay forsuch things as he offered to the holy saints; but for debts totradesfolk and such, they took their chance. If he had money, he mightpay some of them or no, at his pleasure; and if not, then of course theyhad to wait. Very sure am I that many a pound of musk came into thewardrobe more than was paid for. Never was such a Prince for scents. He loved musk as much as he feared lightning; and there was only onething in all this world that he feared more, and that was Earl Simon ofLeicester. "

"And did the Lady Queen squander her money as much as the Lord King, Aunt Avice?"

"She was every bit as bad. She always seemed to me as if a piece of herbrains had never grown up along with the rest. Some folks are likethat. In respect of money, she was a very child. She had not a notionhow far it would go, and she never would wait to have it before shespent it. She always appeared to think it would come somehow: and sofar as she was concerned, it often did. But then she never saw thehomeless Jews who were sold up to furnish it, nor the ruined tradesmenwho had to wait till they could not pay their own way, and were sent toprison for debt. I think she might have been sorry, if she had done. Isuppose we should all be sorry, if we knew half the evil we do. Well, God pardon her!--she is a holy sister now in the priory at Amesbury. And our present Queen always pays her bills, I have heard say. Long mayshe live to do it!"

"How old was the little Lady when her parents came back?"

"She was just over a year old. I waited on her from the Castle ofWindsor to the Palace at Westminster, for the Lord King desired tobehold her at once. And was not he delighted with her! I doubt if anyof the royal children were as dear to the hearts of their parents as ourlittle Lady. "

"Was she pleased to go?"

"Pleased!--she gave nobody a bit of rest, " said Avice, laughing. "Allthe journey through she was plucking at my gown, and pointing, firsthere and then there, with her little cry of `Who? who?'--for she talkedat fifteen months old as much as she ever spoke in this world. Andbefore I could find out what she meant, she was pointing to somethingelse, and `Who? who?' came over again. "

"Did you know then that she was deaf and dumb?"

"No! nor for months after. Truly, all her ways were so bright, and hersense so keen, and her laugh so gladsome, that we never thought of sucha thing till she was long past the age when children ought to speakfreely. But when at last they began to fear the truth, it was indeed abitter grief to the royal parents. The Lord King offered five cloths ofgold at Saint Edward's shrine for the children, and specially for ourlittle Lady, in hope that the Divine mercy might be moved to have pityon her. But it was all in vain. "

Avice sighed heavily. And there was no one to say to her, O woman, _small_ is thy faith! Was the Divine mercy no greater, which calledthat little child, unspotted by the world, to tread the fair streets ofthe Golden City, than the mercy thou wouldst have had instead of it?

"It was not long after that, " said Avice, slowly drawing out the whitethreads, "that our little Lady's health began to fail. The heats ofsummer tried her sorely. She drooped like a flower that had no water. Instead of playing with the other children, her gleeful laughter ringingthrough the galleries of the Castle, she would come and draw her littlevelvet stool to my side, and lay her head on my knee as if she were veryweary. And when I looked down and smiled on her, instead of smilingback as she was wont, the great, dark wistful eyes used to look up sosadly, as if her soul were looking out of them. Oh, it was pitiful toread the dear eyes, when they said, `I am suffering: cannot you helpme?' And as time went on, they said it more and more. When the LadyQueen came to Windsor, she was shocked at the sad change in our darlinglittle Lady. She called in Master Thomas, the King's surgeon, and headvised that our little Lady should be removed from Windsor to somecountry place, where the air was good, and where she could play about inthe fields. So she was put in charge of Emma La Despenser, Lady deSaint John, at her manor of Swallowfield, in Berkshire. Of course Iwent with her, and her cousin Alianora also, who was her favouriteplayfellow, for it was not thought well she should be entirely witholder people, though I cannot say I was sorry to get rid of all thoserough boys. The Lord King also commanded that a kid should be taken inthe forest, as small and fair as might be found, for our little Lady toplay with: and very fond she was of it. It was a lovely littlecreature, and grew as tame as possible. Ah, they were much alike, thosetwo little things!--both young, soft, lovely--and both dumb! Imarvelled sometimes whether they understood each other. "

"And did she not get any better, Aunt?"

"Yes; for a time she did. The country air and food and quiet did seemto do her good. She was so much better that she came back to Windsorfor the winter. But it was not thought well by Master Thomas that sheshould go to London to be present at the great rejoicings that were madewhen the Lady Alianora came from Spain--our Queen that now is, the holysaints bless her! There were grand doings then, I heard; all Londoncity was curtained in her honour, and processions in every church, andall superbly decorated; and the poor fed in the halls at Westminster, asmany as could get in; and the Lord King presented a silver cross to theAbbey, and a golden plate of an ounce weight. Oh, it must have been agrand sight!"

"Who paid that bill, I wonder?" said Bertha, laughing. 

"Bless thee, child! how do I know? That was the autumn when there wasso much ado here at Lincoln touching the crucifixion of the blessedHugh, son of Beatrice, by the wicked Jews; one hundred and more of themwere brought to prison, first here, and afterwards at Westminster; andwhen eighteen had been hanged, the rest were graciously allowed to buytheir lives for eighteen thousand marks. I daresay some of that wentfor it--that is, for as much of it as got paid for. "

That sum would now be equal to about two hundred and sixteen thousandpounds. It never came into Avice's head to doubt whether the Jews hadcrucified little Hugh. Such charges were often enough brought againstthem--when those who called themselves Christians wanted an excuse forstealing the jews' money and jewels. There has never been a singleinstance, in this country or any other, in which the charge has beenproved true. A further favourite accusation, that the Jews used theblood of Christian children to make their passover cakes, we know cannothave been true; for the Bible tells us that the Jews were strictlyforbidden to eat blood. But what absurdity might not be expected frompeople who had no Bibles, and of whom not more than one in a thousandcould have read it if he had had one? Are we half thankful enough forour own privileges?

"Well!" continued Avice, "after this, the Lady Alianora came down toWindsor with the Lady Queen, and our little Lady and she took to oneanother wonderfully. And, indeed, it was little wonder, for she was asfair and sweet a damsel as ever tripped over the greensward. Our littleLady would run to her whenever she sat down in the children's chamber, and say, `Up! up!' and then the Lady Alianora would smile sweetly, andtake her up beside her in the great state chair; and there they sat withtheir arms round one another, looking like two doves with their headsresting on each other's necks. And the Lady Alianora once said to me, stroking our little Lady's hair--`I hope, Avice, thou givest her plentyof love. She can understand that, if she cannot anything else. ' Ay, and so she could! She fretted sadly over the Lady Alianora when shewent away from Windsor. I think she and the little kid were more thanever together after that. I have found them both asleep in a corner ofthe chamber, resting on one another. "

"Was she fond of pets?"

"She loved her little kid dearly, and she seemed to go to it forcomfort. I do not know that she cared much for anything else. The LordKing was the one for gathering curious animals of all sorts. He hadthree leopards in the Tower, and a white bear, which was taken out tofish in the Thames; the citizens of London paid fourpence a day for thebear's keep, and had to provide a chain and muzzle for it, and a longcord whereby it was held when it fished in the river. And in thespring, before the coming of the Lady Alianora, the French King sent toour King a very strange animal, the like of which was never before seenin England. It had scarcely any eyes that man might see, and not muchof a tail; but great flapping ears, and a most extraordinary thing thathung down from its face, which was hollow like a pipe, and it could pickthings up with it as thou dost with thy fingers. It was a lead-colouredbeast, and ate nought but grass and hay and such-like; it would nottouch meat nor bones. They called it an oliphant, "--for so in old timepeople pronounced elephant. "The Lord King thought great things of thisbeast, and had a house built for it, forty feet by twenty, at the Tower:it was made very strong, lest the great beast should break forth andslay men. But truly it seemed a peaceable beast enough. 

"We dwelt much more quietly at Windsor, after the departure of the LadyAlianora. For she went abroad with the Lord Edward her husband, andMariot de Ferrars, who had been there for some time--she went too; andthe King's son Edmund was made King of Sicily by the Lord Pope, and heand the other lads were taken away; our little Lady and her cousinAlianora de Montfort alone were left. The King thought to have mademoney by Edmund his son; he was a fair boy in very truth, and he cladhim in Sicilian dress, which was graceful and comely, and showed himbefore the Parliament, entreating them to find him money for all thesemany expenses. But the Parliament did not seem disposed to pay forseeing the young Lord. And, indeed, I heard Master Russell say that hethought it strange the Lord King should make merchandise of his child'sbeauty, as though he were some curious animal to be seen in a show. ButBertha, my dear heart! we clean forgot to buy any honey--and only thisminute is it come to my mind. Tie on thine hood, I pray thee, and runto the druggist for an half-dozen pounds. "

When it is understood that honey held in Avice's cookery and diet theplace that sugar does in ours, the necessity of remedying this mistakewill be seen. Sugar was much too expensive to be used by any butwealthy people. 

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Note 1. The robes provided for Agnes and Avice are the sole imaginaryitems in this account. Sendal was a very thin silk. 

CHAPTER SIX. 

SET FREE. 

As Bertha came back, carefully carrying her jar of honey, she heard aconsiderable tumult in a street on her left hand, which led to the Jews'quarter of the city. In every town, the Jews were shut up in aparticular part of it; and after London itself, the towns in which thegreatest number of Jews lived were Lincoln, York, Norwich, Oxford, andNorthampton. Since the dreadful persecution arising from the (real orsupposed) murder of little Hugh, Lincoln had been comparatively quietfrom such tumults; and Bertha was too young to know anything about itbut from hearsay. Wondering if some fresh commotion was going to arise, and anxious to be safe at home before it should begin, Bertha quickenedher steps. There were only three more streets to cross, one of whichwas a dark, narrow alley leading directly to the Jews' quarter. AsBertha crossed this, she heard a low, frightened call upon her name, anda slight figure crept out and crouched at her feet. 

"O Bertha!" said a girl's voice, broken by sobs and terrified catchingof the breath, "you are kind-hearted; I know you are. You saved alittle dog that the dreadful boys were trying to drown. Will you saveme, though I am beneath a dog in your eyes?"

"Who are you?" asked astonished Bertha. 

"I am Hester, the daughter of Aaron, " said the girl, "and there is adeadly raid on our quarter. They accuse us of poisoning the wells. OBertha, they lay things to us that we never do! Save me, for mywomanhood's sake!"

"Poor soul!" said Bertha, looking down at her. "Come with me to AuntAvice. Maybe she will let thee tarry in some corner till the tumult isover. I dare say it will not be much. "

Bertha spoke in rather contemptuous tones, though they were not wantingin pity. Everybody in England was taught then to rank Jews with vermin, and to look upon it as a weakness to show them any kindness. 

The two girls reached the door in safety, and Bertha led Hester in. 

"Aunt Avice, " she said, "there is a commotion in the Jews' quarter, andhere is a Jew maiden that wants to know if we will shelter her. Isuppose she won't hurt us much, will she?"

The very breath of a Jew was fancied to be poisonous. 

Avice looked at the pale, terrified face and trembling limbs of the girlwho had cast herself on her mercy. 

"Well, I dare say not, " said she; "at any rate, we will risk it. Perhaps the good Lord may not be very angry; or if He is, we must saymore prayers, and beg our Lady Saint Mary to intercede for us. Come in, child. "

Poor Avice! she knew no better. She had been taught that the Lord whodied for her was a stern, angry Judge, and that all the mercy rested inHis human mother. And the Jews had crucified Christ; so, thought Avice, He must hate them! Perhaps, of such Christians as she was, He may havesaid again, "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do. "

Hester came in quietly. "May God bless you!" she said. "I will try notto breathe on you, for I know what you think. " And she sat down meeklyon the floor, in a dark corner, not daring to offer any help, lest theyshould imagine that she would pollute anything she touched. Avice threwher a cake of bread, as she might have done to a dog; and Hester knewthat it was a kinder act than she would have received from most of theChristians around. 

It was not yet quite bed-time, and Bertha sat down again to her work, begging her aunt to finish the tale. They took no notice of Hester. 

"It is almost finished, " said Avice; "there is little more to tell. Thewinter got over, but spring was scarcely begun when our little Lady'shealth failed again. The Lord King was so anxious about her that whenhe was away from Windsor, he bade the Lady Queen to send him a specialmessenger with news of her; and so delighted was he to hear of herrecovery, that he commanded a good robe to be given to the messenger, and offered in thanksgiving an image of silver, wrought in the form of awoman, to the shrine of Saint Edward. "

"Then she did recover, Aunt?"

"Ay, but it was for the last time. As the summer drew on, the LadyQueen asked Master Thomas if he thought it well that the little Ladyshould have change again, and be sent into the country till the heat waspast. Master Thomas answered that he reckoned it unnecessary; and theLady Queen departed, well pleased. But as soon as she was gone, MasterThomas said to me and Julian the Rocker, who were tending our littleLady--`She will have a better change than to Swallowfield. ' QuothJulian, `Say you so, Master? Whither do you purpose sending her?' Andhe said, looking sadly on the child, `_I_ purpose sending her? Truly, good Julian, no whither. But ere long time be over, the Lord our Godwill send for her, by that angel that taketh no bribe to delay executionof His mandate. ' And then I knew his meaning: my darling was to die. But the steps of the angel were very slow. The autumn came and went. The child seemed languid and dull, and the Lord King offered a chasubleof samite to the blessed Edmund of Pontigny at his altar at Canterbury. "

Edmund Rich, afterwards called Saint Edmund of Pontigny, was anArchbishop of Canterbury with whom King Henry the Third was at varianceas long as he lived, much in the same way as Henry the Second had beenwith Becket. Now he was dead, a banished man, the Pope had declared hima saint, and King Henry made humble offerings at his shrine. But it isamusing to find that with respect to this offering at least, hisMajesty's instructions were to buy the samite of the lowest price thatcould be found!

"It was all of no use, " pursued Avice sorrowfully. "The angel hadreceived the mandate. Great feasts were held at Easter--there weretwenty beeves and fifty muttons, fifteen hundred pullets, and sixhundred shillings' worth of bread, beside many other things--but ere onemonth was over, the feast became a fast. When Saint Philip's day dawnedmy darling lay in her bed, with her fair eyes turned up to heaven andher hands folded in prayer; and who may know what she said to God, oryet more what He told to her? She had never been taught to pray; shecould not be. " Avice's only notion of prayer was repeating a form ofwords, and keeping time by a string of beads. "But I shall always thinkthat in some way beyond our comprehension, my darling could speak toGod. And on the evening of the Invention of the Cross"--which is May3rd--"she spoke to Him in Heaven. "

"And did the Lady Queen sorrow very much, Aunt? I suppose, though, great ladies like her would not care as much as poor people. "

"Wouldst thou, child? Ah, a mother is a mother, let her be a cottageror a queen. And she sorrowed so sorely that for weeks afterwards shelay ill, and all the skill of her physicians could avail nothing. TheLord King, too, fell sick of a tertian fever, which held him many days, and I believe it was out of sheer anguish for his dearest child. Hecommanded a brass image of her to be placed on the tomb, but ere it wasfinished he would have one of silver: and he gave fifty shillings a yearto the hermit of Charing, for a priest to pray daily for her in thechapel of the hermitage. "

"Do you think she is still in Purgatory, Aunt?"

Avice's religion, as taught not by the Word of God, but the traditionsof men, led her to be doubtful on that point. But her heart broke itsway through the bonds. 

"What, my white dove? my little unspotted darling, that never wilfullysinned against God and holy Church? Child, if our holy Father the Popewere to tell me himself that she was there, I would not believe him. Dothe angels go to Purgatory? Nay, I do verily believe that, seeing herinfirmity, Christ our Lord did all the work of salvation for her, andthat she sings now before our Father's face. "

Poor Avice! she could get no further. But we, who know God's Word, knowthat there is but one Mediator between God and man, and that He hasoffered a full, perfect, and sufficient sacrifice for the sins of thewhole world. Before Bertha could reply, an answer came unexpectedlyfrom the dark corner. 

"Your God must be hard to propitiate, " said the young Jewess. "In oldtimes, after the sacrifice was offered, a man was cleansed from sin. Hehad not to cleanse himself by his own pain. "

"But you are heathens, " said Avice, feeling it a condescension to arguewith a Jew. "Our religion is better than yours. "

"How?" was Hester's rejoinder. 

"Because we have been redeemed by our Lord, who died to save us fromHell. "

"It does not sound like it. Then why had the little child to go there?"

"She did not go there! She went to Purgatory. "

"She went to pain, if I understood you rightly. Why did your Messiahnot finish His work, and keep her from going to pain altogether?"

"I cannot answer such wicked questions, " said Avice. "The Churchteaches that God's love purifies His servants in Purgatory, and as soonas their souls are clean they go to Heaven. "

"Our God does better for us than that, " was Hester's quiet answer. "Ido not know what `the Church' is. But I suppose God's love is not forGentiles. "

And she relapsed into silence. Avice sat and span--and thought. Bothof them were terribly ignorant; but Avice did honestly desire to knowGod's will, and such truth as was in Hester's words troubled her. Andas she thought, other words came to her, heard years ago from the pulpitof Lincoln Cathedral, and from the long silent lips of that holy BishopGrosteste whom she so deeply revered. 

"By leaning on Christ, " the Bishop had said, "every true Christian risesinto true life, peace, and joy; he lives in His life, sees light in Hislight, is invigorated with His warmth, grows in His strength, andleaning on the Beloved, his soul ascends upwards. "

Then for those who loved Christ and leaned on Him, either He must bewith them in Purgatory, and then it would be no pain at all: or--Aviceshrank from the alternative that perhaps there was no Purgatory at all!It is hard to break free from trammels in which we have been held allour lives. Bertha did not follow the course of her aunt's thoughts, andwondered why she said, after long silence--

"Methinks God is enough for His people, wherever they are. "

Hester also had been thinking, and to as much purpose. 

"It is written, `In His name shall the Gentiles trust, '" she said. "AndI think, if He can love any Gentiles, it must be kindly and mercifulhearts like yours. Perhaps the Great Sacrifice--the Messiah Himself--ismeant for all men. But I think He will finish His work, and not leaveit incomplete, as your priests seem to teach you. "

"He will do right by all men, if thou meanest our Lord, " replied Avicegently. "And what was right for all, and best for us, we shall knowwhen we come to Him. "

"Then the little Lady knows it now, Aunt, " said Bertha. 

"Yes, my darling knows it now. It may be she knows why her ears weresealed and her tongue bound, now that they are unstopped and loosed. And I marvel if any voice in the choirs of the angels can be so sweet ashers. "

There was silence for a little while. Then Hester rose. 

"I thank you very much for your kindness, " she said. "I think I mightgo home. The streets seem quieter now. "

Avice went to the door, unlatched it, and peered forth into the night. 

"Yes, there seems to be no noise in the direction of your quarter now. I think you will be safe. But if you feel uneasy, you can stay thenight in this room. "

"No, thank you, " replied Hester gratefully. "I will not put you to thattrouble. You have been very good to me. May the God of Israel blessyou with His blessing!"

Avice felt rather uneasy. She had always been taught that Jews wereidolaters, and she never imagined that Hester could be blessing her inthe name of the one living God. She fancied that the benediction ofsome horrible Moloch was being called down upon her, and feared itaccordingly. But she answered kindly, for unkindness was not in hersimple, loving, God-fearing heart. Hester went out, and latched thedoor behind her. 

"I am glad she is gone, " said Bertha. "I could not feel easy while shewas here. Yet I could not have borne to turn her away without askingyou if you would take her in, Aunt. I hope we have not done wrong!"

"I hope not, indeed, " replied Avice, who was not quite easy in her ownmind. "I wonder why it should be so wrong to pity Jews, and be kind tothem. It looks so different from all the other commands of our Lord. "

Different, most truly! But such causes for wonder were likely to befrequent enough, so long as men allowed the traditions of men to runalongside of the infallible Word of God. And they had no power to readfor themselves the real words of the Lord, who had said to the father ofall Israel, "I will bless them that bless thee, and curse him thatcurseth thee. "

But the influx of visitors was not yet over for the evening. Hester hadnot been gone long when a heavy rap came on the door. "Come in!" saidAvice; and Uncle Dan appeared. 

"Could you spare a chap a seat, think ye?" said he. "I've come for abit o' peace. We've got thunder and lightning and rain up at smithy. _She's_ thunder, and Ankaret's lightning, and Mildred's rain, for she'sa-crying: and El'nor and me, we 're wet to skin wi' 't. So I put my capon and come here to dry me a bit. "

Avice laughed. "You're always welcome, Uncle Dan, and I hope you knowit, " said she. "Bertha, my maid, bake a short-cake for thy father. There's enough warmth in the bake-stone. "

"Short-cake's good, " said Dan, "and I'll not go to deny it; but love andpeace are better. _She_ can make short-cake wi' anybody. It's th' jamas goes wi' 't I don't like. She makes it so tart, and puts so much on. Sure, if th' fire had went out, she'd easy bake a cake a-top of hertemper, and so could Ankaret. Eh, it do take a whole hive of honey tosweeten some folks. There's bees in this world, for sure; but there'smany a waps to every bee. "

In the present day, "waps" is considered a vulgar way of pronouncing theword; but it was correct English at the time of which I am writing. "Wasp" is really the corrupt pronunciation. In the same way, they said"claps" where we say "clasp. "

"Uncle Dan, I sometimes wonder you do not come and live in Lincolntown. "

"Dost thee? Think I haven't noise enough at smithy?"

"But I think you would make friends here, and find things pleasanter. "

"Humph!" said Dan, laying a big, hardened brown hand upon each knee. "It's very plain to me, Avice, as thou doesn't live in a house whereeverything thou does turns to hot water. Me make friends! She'd have'em out o' th' door afore they'd a-comed in. They wouldn't come twice, I reckon--nay, they wouldn't. That'd be end o' my friend-making, Avice. "

"Uncle Dan, did you never try standing up to Aunt Filomena?"

"Did I never try _what_? Ay did I, once--and got knocked down as sharpas ninepins. Standing up! I'd love to see thee try it. Thou'd not beright end up long. "

Bertha had gone upstairs, or Avice perhaps would not have spoken soplainly, though the smith himself had long passed the stage of ignoringhis wife's failings in the presence of her children. 

"But you are her husband, Uncle Dan. "

"I reckon I know that Thou would, if she'd plucked as much of thywhiskers out as she has o' mine. "

"And wives ought to obey their husbands. "

"Thou'll oblige me by saying so to her, and I'll be glad to know if thoulikes what thou'll get. "

"You think she cannot be managed?"

"Not without one o' th' archangels likes to try. I'll not say hewouldn't be sorry at after. "

"It does seem such a sad way for you to live, " said Avice pityingly. 

"Grin and bide, " said Dan philosophically. "Grin while I can, and bidewhen I can't. But I'll tell thee what--if some o' them fighting fellowsas goes up and down a-seeking for adventures, 'd just take off Ankaretand Mildred--well, I don't know about El'nor: she's been better o'late--and eh, but they couldn't take Her, or I'd ha' given th' cow intoth' bargain, and been right glad on't--and if me and Emma and Berthacould ha' settled down in a bit of a house somewhere, and beenpeaceable--Come, it's no use hankering over things as can't be. Elsewise, I'd ha' said a chap might ha' had a bit o' comfort then. "

"Uncle Dan, did you ever think of praying that Aunt Filomena might havea better temper?"

"Ever think of what?" demanded Uncle Dan in the biggest capitals everseen on a placard. 

"You know God could make her temper sweet, Uncle Dan. "

"Thou believes that, does thou?"

"I do. "

"So will I--when I see't. I reckon I'll have a rare capful o' larks byth' sky falling, first. "

"The sky will fall some day, my son, " said the voice of Father Thomas, behind Dan. His soft rap had been unheard through Dan's bass voice, andhe had entered unperceived. 

"Well, Father, you should know the rights on't, " was Dan's answer, witha pull at his hair. "Being a priest, I reckon you're good friends wi'th' angels and th' sky and all that sort of thing; but--I ask yourpardon, Father, but She belongs to t'other lot, and you don't know her. Eh, you don't, so!"

And with an ominous shake of his head, and a good-night to Avice andBertha, Dan passed out. 

"Our Lord could do that, Father?" said Avice softly. 

"Certainly, my daughter. `Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He--inthe heavens, and in the earth, and in the sea, and in all depths. '"

Father Thomas had not much of the Bible--only one Gospel and a Book ofPsalms--but what he had he studied well. And one page of the Word ofGod will do a great deal for a man, with the Spirit of God to bring ithome to a willing ear and a loving heart. 

"May I pray for Aunt Filomena? I am so sorry for Uncle Dan. He is nota bad man, and she makes his home unbearable. "

"God forgive her! By all means pray for both. "

CHAPTER SEVEN. 

A SPICE OF PHILOSOPHY. 

While Dan was thus detailing his troubles in Avice's kitchen, hisdaughter Emma was finishing her day's work. She was apprenticed to anembroideress; for all kinds of embroidery were in much greater use thenthan now. There was no sort of trimming except embroidery and fur;there were no such things as printed cottons; and not only ladies'dresses, but gentlemen's, and all kinds of curtains and hangings, werevery largely ornamented with the needle. Mrs De la Laund kept eighteenapprentices, and they worked in a long, narrow room with windows at eachend--not glass windows, but just square openings, where light, wind, andrain or snow, came in together. It was about half an hour before itwould be time to stop work. There was no clock in the room, and therewere only three in all Lincoln. Clocks such as we have were thenunknown. They had but two measures of time--the clepsydra, orwater-clock, and the sun-dial. When a man had neither of these, heemployed all kinds of ingenious expedients for guessing what time itwas, if the day were cloudy and the sun not to be seen. King Alfred hadinvented the plan, long before, of having candles to burn a certaintime; the monks knew how long it took to repeat certain psalms. Mrs Dela Laund stopped work when the cathedral bell tolled for vespers--thatis, at four o'clock. 

"You look tired, Antigone, " said Emma to her nearest neighbour, a palegirl of eighteen. 

"Tired? Of course I'm tired, " was the unpromising answer. "Where's thegood? One must go on. "

"She does not like the work, " said the girl on the other side of her. 

"Do you?" responded Antigone, turning to her. 

The girl gave a little laugh. "I don't think whether I like it or not, "she said. "I like being taught what will get me a living some day. "

"I hate it!" answered Antigone. "Why should I have to work for myliving, when Lady Margaret, up at the Castle, never needs to put aneedle in or out unless she pleases?"

"Nay, you're wrong there. My sister Justina is scullion-maid at theCastle, and I am sure, from what she tells me, you wouldn't like tochange with Lady Margaret. "

"My word, but I would!"

"Why not, Sarah?" asked Emma. 

"Well, " replied Sarah with a smile, "Antigone likes what she calls a bitof fun when the day's work is over; and she would not get nearly so muchas she does, if she were in Lady Margaret's place. She dwells in threechambers in her mother's tower, and never comes down except to hall, "(namely, to meals, ) "with now and then a decorous dance under the eyesof the Lady Countess. No running races on the green, nor chatteringaway to everybody, nor games--except upstairs in her own room with a fewother young damsels. Antigone would think she was in prison, to be usedlike that. And learning!--why, she has to learn Latin, and surgery, andheraldry, and all sorts of needlework--not embroidery only; and cooking, and music, and I do not know what else. How would you like it, Antigone?"

"Well, at any rate, she has a change!" said Antigone, with someacerbity. 

"Not quite the same thing as no work at all, for which I thought youwere longing. And no liberty, remember. "

"But her gowns, Sarah, her gowns!--and her hoods, and cloaks, andeverything else! Did you see her last Saint Michael? I'd have given abit of liberty for that orange samite and those lovely blue slippers!"

Sarah laughed and gave a little shake of her head. 

"I know who is fond of Hunt the Slipper, " said she. "A pretty figure anorange samite gown would cut after an evening of it! I think, too, Iwould rather be free to go about on my feet than even to wear lovelyblue slippers. Nay, Antigone, you may depend upon it, there are lesspleasant things in Lady Margaret's life than orange gowns and blueslippers. We can have a say about our weddings, remember: but she willbe handed over to somebody she never saw, as like as not. I'd rather beas I am. Mother says folks' lots are more even than they like to think. Poor folks fancy that rich ones have nothing to trouble them worthmention; and a sick man thinks, if he were only well, he would not mindbeing poor; and a man in prison says that if he could but be free, hecould bear both illness and poverty. The truth is, everybody thinks hisown trouble the worst; and yet, if we had our neighbours' instead, ninetimes out of ten we should be glad to get back to our own. We know theworst of them, and often we don't of the others. So that is why I say, I'd rather be as I am. "

"But people look down on you!" said Antigone. 

"Well, let them. _That_ won't hurt me, " answered Sarah. 

"Sarah, I do believe you've not a bit of spirit!"

"I'd rather keep my spirit for what it is good for--to help me over hardplaces and along weary bits of road. All women have those at times. Mother says--"

"Where's the good of quoting old women? They have outlived theiryouth. "

"Well, at any rate they lived through it, and some of them picked up abit of wisdom by the way. "

"You may keep your musty wisdom to yourself! I want none of it!" saidAntigone, scornfully. 

"I want all I can get, " quietly responded Sarah. "Mother says (if youdon't care for it, Emma may) that discontent is the worst companion agirl can have for making everything look miserable. You'll be a dealhappier, she says, with a dry crust and a good will to it, than with aroast ox and a complaining temper. "

"Ay, that's true!" said Emma, with a sigh. 

"Poor Emma!" laughed Antigone. "You get enough of it, don't you, at thesmithy?"

"I would rather not talk over my mother and sisters, if you please, "returned Emma. 

"Oh, you don't need to take airs, my lady. I know!"

"Come, let Emma be, " said Sarah. "Let's keep our tempers, if we haven'tmuch else. There's the vesper bell!"

Antigone's work was not likely to be improved by the hasty huddled-upstyle in which it was folded, while Sarah and Emma shook theirs straightand carefully avoided creases. They had then to give it in to themistress, who stood at one end of the room, putting all away in a largecoffer. When the last girl had given in her work, Mrs De la Laundcalled for silence. 

"On Thursday next, " said she, "I shall give you a holiday after dinner. The Queen comes to Lincoln on that day, and I wish to give as many asare good girls the chance of seeing her enter. But I shall expect tohave no creased work like Antigone's; nor split and frayed likeGeneveva's; nor dirtied like Femiana's. Now you may go. "

They had odd names for girls in those days. Among the nobles andgentry, most were like ours; young ladies of rank were Alice, Cicely, Margaret, Joan, Isabel, Emma, or Agnes: a strange name being theexception. But among working women the odd names were then the rule:they were Yngeleis, Sabelina, Orenge, Pimma, Cinelote, Argentella, andvery many more of the same high-sounding kind. 

When the apprentices left the work-room, they were free to do as theyliked till seven o'clock, when they must all re-assemble there, answerto their names called over, repeat some prayers after Mrs de la Laund, and go to bed in a large loft at the top of the house. Characters cameout on these occasions. The majority showed themselves thoughtless andgiddy: they went to run races on the green, and to play games--thebetter disposed only among themselves: but the wild, adventurous spiritssoon joined a lot of idle youths as unsteady as themselves, with whomthey spent the evening in rough play, loud laughter, and not altogetherdecorous joking. The little group of sensible girls kept away from suchscenes. Most of them went to see their friends, if within reasonabledistance; those who had none at hand sat or walked quietly together. Emma and Sarah were among these. 

Any person entering Lincoln on the following Wednesday would plainlyhave seen that the town was preparing for some great event. Every housedraped itself in some kind of hanging--the rich in coarse silk, thepoorer in bunting or whatever they could get. The iron hoops here andthere built into the walls for that purpose, held long pine-sticks, tobe lighted as torches after dark; and they would need careful watching, for a great deal of the city was built of wood, and if a spark lightedon the walls, a serious fire might be the result. In the numerousbalconies which projected from the better class of houses sat ladiesdressed in their handsomest garments on the Thursday morning, and belowin the street stood men and women packed tightly into a crowd, waitingfor the Queen to arrive. There was not much room in a mediaeval street, and the sheriffs did not find it easy to keep a clear passage for theroyal train. As to keeping any passage for the traffic, that would havebeen considered quite unnecessary. There was not much to keep it for;and what there was could go round by back streets, just as well as not. Few people set any value on time in the Middle Ages. 

Queen Alianora was expected to arrive about twelve o'clock. She was notthe Queen Eleanor of whom we read at the beginning of the story (forAlianora is only one of the old ways of spelling Eleanor), but herdaughter-in-law, the Lady Alianora who had been a friend to the dumbPrincess. She was a Spanish lady, and was one of the best and loveliestQueens who ever reigned in England. Goodness and beauty are not alwaysfound in company--perhaps I might say, not often; but they went togetherwith her. She was a Spanish blonde--which means that her hair was abright shade of golden--neither flaxen nor red; and that her eyes were adeep, deep blue--the blue of a southern sky, such as we rarely if eversee in an English one. Her complexion was fair and rosy, her featuresregular and beautiful, her figure extremely elegant andwell-proportioned. The crowd, though good-humoured, was beginning toget tired, when she came at last. 

The Queen, who was not quite thirty years of age, rode on a white horse, whose scarlet saddle-cloth was embroidered with golden lions and roses, and which was led by Garcia, her Spanish Master of the Horse. She wasdressed in green samite, trimmed with ermine. On her left hand rode theEarl of Lincoln, on her right, her eldest surviving son, the littlePrince Alphonso, who was only seven years old. He died at the age ofeleven. After the Queen rode her two damsels, Aubrey de Caumpeden andErmetrude; and after them and the officers of the household came anumber of lesser people, the mob of sight-seers closing in and followingthem up the street. [See Note 1. ] Her Majesty rode up Steephill to theCastle, where the Countess of Lincoln and her daughter Lady Margaret--agirl of about fifteen--received her just inside the gate. Then the mobcheered, the Queen looked back with a smile and a bow, the Almoner flunga handful of silver pennies among them, the portcullis was hauled down, and the sight was over. 

As Emma turned back from the Castle gate, she met her father and hersister Eleanor, who, like her, had been sight-seeing. 

"Well!" said Dan, "did thou see her?"

"Oh yes, beautifully!" answered Emma. "Isn't she handsome, Father?"

"`Handsome is as handsome does, '" philosophically returned Dan. "Somefolks looks mighty handsome as doesn't do even to it. _She_ was justlike a pictur' when I wed her. Ay, she was, so!--Where art thou going, Emma?"

"I thought of looking in on Aunt Avice, Father. Are you and Eleanorcoming, too?"

"I'm not, " said Eleanor. "I'm going to see Laurentia atte Gate. SoI'll wish you good even. "

She kept straight on, while Dan and Emma turned off for Avice's house. It was not surprising that they found nobody at home but the turnspitdog, who was sufficiently familiar with both to wag a welcome; butsomebody sat in the chimney-corner who was not at home, but was avisitor like themselves. When the door was unlatched, Father Thomasclosed the book he had been reading and looked up. 

"Good even, Father, " said Dan to the priest. "I reckon you've come o'th' same errand as us. "

"What is that, my son?"

Dan sat down on the form, and put a big hand on each knee. 

"Well, it's some'at like t' shepherd comin' to count t' sheep, to see'at none of 'em's missin', " said he. "It's so easy to get lost of a bigmoor full o' pits and quagmires. And this world's some'at like it. --Ah, Avice! folks as goes a-sight-seeing mun expect to find things of amixtur' when they gets home. "

"A very pleasant mixture, Uncle, " said Avice. "Pray you of yourblessing, holy Father. "

Father Thomas gave it, and Bertha, stooping down, kissed Dan on hisbroad wrinkled forehead. 

"Did thou get a penny?" asked Dan. 

"I got two!" cried Bertha, triumphantly. "And Aunt Avice got one. Didyou, Father?"

"Nay, lass--none o' my luck! Silver pennies and such knows better norto come my way. Nor they'd better not, without they'll come rightnumber. I should get tore to bits if I went home wi' one, as like asnot. She 'd want it, and so 'd Ankaret, and so 'd Susanna, and so 'dMildred; and atwixt 'em all it 'd get broke i' pieces, and _so_ shouldI. And see thou, it's made i' quarters, and I amn't, so it wouldn'tcome so convenient to me. "

Pennies were then made with a deep cross cut athwart them, so that theywere easily broken, when wanted, into halfpence and farthings, for therewere no separate ones coined. 

"Father, have one of mine!" cried Bertha at the beginning of Dan'sanswer. 

"Nay, nay, lass! Keep thy bit o' silver--or if thou wants to give it, let Emma have it. She'll outlive it; I shouldn't. "

The silver penny changed hands at once. Avice had meanwhile beenhanging up her hood and cloak, and she now proceeded to prepare a dishof eggs, foreseeing company to supper. Supper was exceedingly earlyto-day, as it was scarcely three o'clock; but dinner had been equallyso, for nobody wanted to be busy when the Queen came. A large dish of"eggs and butter" was speedily on the table--the "buttered eggs" of thenorth of England, which are, I believe, identical with the "scrambledeggs" of the United States. The party sat down to supper, Father Thomasbeing served with a trencher to himself. 

"And how dost thou get along wi' thy Missis, my lass?" said Dan to hisdaughter. 

"Oh, things is very pleasant as yet, Father, " answered Emma with asmile. "There's a mixture, as you said just now. Some's decent lassesenough; and some's foolish; and some's middlin'. There's most of themiddlin' ones. "

"I'm fain to hear it, " said Dan. "Lasses is so foolish, I should ha'thought there 'd be most o' that lot. So 's lads too. Eh, it's a queerworld, this un: mortal queer! But I asked thee how thou got on with thyMissis, and thou tells me o' th' lasses. Never _did_ know a womananswer straight off. Ask most on 'em how far it is to Newark, andthey'll answer you that t' wind was west as they come fro' Barling. "

"Thou hast not a good opinion of women, my son, " said Father Thomas, wholooked much amused. 

"I've seen too much on 'em!" responded Dan, conclusively. "I've got awife and six lasses. "

"Bertha, we'd better mind our ways!" said Emma, laughing. 

"Nay, it's none you, " was Dan's comment. "You're middlin' decent, youtwo. So's Avice; and so's old Christopher's Regina. I know of ne'eranother, without it 's t' cat--and she scratches like t' rest when she'sput out. There _is_ other decent 'uns, happen. They haven't come myway yet. "

"Why, Father!" cried Emma. "Think who you're lumping together--the LadyQueen, and my Lady at the Castle, and Lady Margaret, and the Dean'ssister, and--"

"Thou'll be out o' breath, if thou reckons all thou'st heard tell of, "said Dan. "There's cats o' different sorts, child: some's snowy white(when so be they've none been i' th' ash-hole), and some's tabby, andsome's black as iron; but they all scrats. Women's like 'em. --You'rewise men, you parsons and such, as have nought to do wi' 'em. OldChristopher, my neighbour up at smithy, he says weddin's like a bag fullo' snakes wi' one eel amongst 'em: you ha' to put your hand in, and youmay get th' eel. But if you dunna--why you've got to do t' best you canwi' one o' t' other lot. If you'll keep your hand out of the bag you'llstand best chance of not getting bit. "

"It is a pity thou wert not a monk, my son, " said the priest, whosegravity seemed hard to keep. 

"Ay, it is!" was Dan's hearty response. "I'm alway fain to pass anunnery. Says I to myself, There's a bonnie lot o' snakes safe tied upout o' folkses' way. They'll never fly at nobody no more. I'm fain forthe men as hasn't got 'em. Ay, I am!"

Avice and her young cousins laughed. 

"Do you think they never fly at one another, Uncle Dan?" asked theformer. 

"Let 'em!" returned that gentleman with much cordiality. "A man gets abit o' peace then. It's t' only time he does. If they'd just go andmake a reg'lar end o' one another! but they never does, "--and the smithpushed away his trencher with a sigh. "Well! I reckon I mun be going. She gave me while four:--and I'm feared o' vesper bell ringing afore Ican get home. There'll be more bells nor one, if so. God be wi' ye, lasses! Good even, Father. "

And the door was shut on the unhappy husband of the delightful Filomena. Emma took leave soon after, and Bertha went with her, to see anotherfriend before she returned to her employer's house. Avice and thepriest were left alone. For a few minutes both were silent; but perhapstheir thoughts were not very unlike. 

"I wish, under your leave, Father, " said Avice at length, "that somebodywould say a word to Aunt Filomena. I am afraid both she and Uncle Danare very ignorant. Truly, so am I: and it should be some one who knowsbetter. I doubt if he quite means all he says; but he thinks too ill ofwomen, --and indeed, with five such as he has at home, who can wonder atit? He has no peace from morning to night; and he is naturally a manwho loves peace and quiet--as you are yourself, holy Father, unless Imistake. "

"Thou art not mistaken, my daughter, " said Father Thomas. Somethinginside him was giving him a sharp prick or two. Did he love quiet toomuch, so as to interfere with his duties to his fellow-men? And thensomething else inside the priest's heart rose up, as it were, to pressdown the question, and bid the questioner be silent. 

"I wonder, " said Avice, innocently, quite unaware of the course of hercompanion's thoughts, "whether, if Aunt Filomena knew her duty better, she might not give poor Uncle Dan a little more rest. He is good, inhis way, and as far as he knows. I wish I knew more! But then, " Aviceconcluded, with a little laugh, "I am only a woman. "

"Yet thou art evidently one of the few whom he likes and respects, "answered the priest. "Be it thine, my daughter, to show him that womenare not all of an evil sort. Do thy best, up to the light thou hast;and cry to God for more light, so that thou mayest know how to dobetter. `Pour forth thy prayers to Him, ' as saith the Collect for theFirst Sunday after the Epiphany, `that thou mayest know what thy dutyrequires of thee, and be able to comply with what thou knowest. ' It isa good prayer, and specially for them that are perplexed concerningtheir duty. " [See Note 2. ]

"But when one does know one's duty, " asked Avice with simplicity, "itseems so hard to make one's self do it. "

"Didst thou ever yet do that? Daughter, dost thou believe in the HolyGhost?"

Avice's immediate answer was what would be the instinctive unthinkingresponse of most professing Christians. 

"Why, Father, of course I do!"

"Good. What dost thou believe?"

Avice was silent. "Ah!" said the priest. "It is easy to think webelieve: but hard to put our faith into plain words. If the faith wereclearer, maybe the words would follow. "

"It is so difficult to get things clear and plain!" sighed poor Avice. 

"Have one thing clear, daughter--the way between God and thine own soul. Let nothing come in to block up that--however fair, howsoever dear itbe. And thou shalt have thy reward. "

"Father, is it like keeping other things clear? The way to have thefloor clear and clean is to sweep it every morning. "

"Ay, my daughter, sweep it every morning with the besom of prayer, andevery night bear over it the torch of self-examination. So shall theevil insects not make their nests there. "

"I don't quite know how to examine myself, " said Avice. 

"And thou wilt err, " answered Father Thomas, "if thou set about thatwork alone, with a torch lighted at the flame of thine ownrighteousness. Light thy torch at the fire of God's altar; examinethyself by the light of His holy law; and do it at His feet, so thatwhatever evil thing thou mayest find thou canst take at once to Him tobe cleansed away. Content not thyself with brushing away thoughts, butgo to the root of that same sin in thine own heart. Say not, `I shouldnot have spoken proudly to my neighbour'--but, `I should not be proud inmy heart. ' Deal rather with the root that is in thee than with thebranches of acts and words. There are sins which only to think of is todo. Take to our Lord, then, thy sins to be cleansed away; but let thineown thoughts dwell not so much on thy sins, thy deeds done and wordssaid, but rather on thy sinfulness, the inward fount of sin in thynature. "

"That were ugly work!" said Avice. 

"Ay. I reckon thou countest not the scouring of thy floor among thineenjoyments. But it is needful, my daughter: and is it no enjoyment tosee it clean?"

"Ay, that it is, " admitted Avice. 

"I remember, my child, many years ago--thou wert but a little maid--thatholy Bishop Robert came to sup with thy grandmother Muriel. Tell me, wouldst thou have been satisfied--I say not as a little child, sincechildren note not such things--but as a woman, wouldst thou have beensatisfied to receive the holy Bishop with a dirty floor, and offer tohim an uncleansed spoon to put to his lips?"

"Oh no, Father, surely not!"

"Then see, daughter, that when the Bishop of thy soul lifteth the latchto come in and sup with thee, He find not the soiled floor and theunclean vessel, and turn sorrowfully away, saying, `I thought to supwith My child this night, but this is no place for Me. ' Trust me, thouwilt lose more than He, if He close the door and depart. "

Avice's eyes filled with tears. 

"O Father, pray for me! I cannot bear to think of that. "

Father Thomas rose and laid his hand on Avice's head. His words, ascoming from a priest, rather surprised her. 

"My child, " he said softly, "let us pray for each other. "

Avice stood looking out of the window after him as he went down thestreet. 

"I wonder, " she said to herself, "if our Lord ever turned away thusbecause Father Thomas's chamber was not clean! He seemed to know whatit was so well--yet how could such a good, holy man know anything aboutit?"

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Note 1. Aubrey is now a man's name only, but in the earlier hall of theMiddle Ages it was used for both sexes. 

Note 2. This collect was slightly altered from that in the SarumMissal. The form here quoted is the older one. 

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

AS A LITTLE CHILD. 

If you put a single straw into an eddying stream, other straws and bitsof rubbish of all sorts will come and join it, until by and bye it lookslike a little island in the midst of the water. And we often seesomething like this going on in men's minds. A man drops one idea, which another man takes up and considers, till ideas of his own come tojoin it, many things seen and heard contribute their help, and at lastthe single sentence grows into a mountain of action. 

Avice would have been astonished if any one had told her that she hadmade an island. But her simple suggestion fell like an odd straw intothe stream of Father Thomas's thoughts, and grew and grew there, until afew days later it led to decided action. 

Father Thomas was by nature a quiet man. His temper was gentle andeven; he hated everything like noise and bustle, far more tumult andquarrelling. He was not fond even of conversation, except now and thenas a pleasant variety to a quiet life, full of thinking and reading. Aman of this sort is generally an innocent man--by which I mean, a manwho does no harm to his neighbours: and considering how many men andwomen spend their lives in doing their neighbours harm of one sort oranother, that is a good deal to say of any man. But there is anotherpoint to be taken into account, namely, what good does such a man do?Why, no more than a chrysalis. And he is a poor specimen of manhood whois content to be of no more use in the world than a chrysalis, and to beas little missed when he goes out of it. This was the point whichtroubled Father Thomas's meditations. It was as if an angel had comedown to him, and pointed to the old smithy on the green, and said, "Whatare you doing for those people? God will demand an account of theirsouls, some day, and from somebody. Are you not your brothers' keeper?"Hitherto Father Thomas had gone on very comfortably, with a reflectionwhich serves a great many of us to excuse our pride or our laziness--Iwish it might never be heard again from human lips--"It is not myplace. " It was true, in one sense. The smithy was in Newport parish, and Father Thomas belonged to the Cathedral. He tried to quiet theangel--which was really his own conscience--with the thought that he hadno business to intrude into somebody else's parish. But the angel wouldnot be quiet. 

"Will God take that answer at the Judgment Day?" he said. "You knowvery well that the Vicar of Newport is an idle, careless man, who nevertroubles himself about the souls of his people: that so long as youobserve the proper forms of civility, and ask his leave to visit thesepeople, he will give it you in a minute, and be glad enough to think heis saved the trouble. That is the truth, and you know it. "

Now, it is very unpleasant when one's conscience says in that blunt, downright, cutting way, "You know it:" and Father Thomas found it so. He made a few more excuses, which his conscience blew to the windsbefore they were well finished: and at last it laid hold of him, as itwere, by the shoulders, and said, "Look there!"

Father Thomas looked there--at the cross which then hung in everyclergyman's room. There were two lines carved on the wood at the bottomof this--lines which it was then not unusual to put at the bottom ofthese crosses. 

"This did I for thee; What dost thou for Me?"

"Look there!" cried the Angel Conscience. "Christ bore that heavy crossfor you--bore the reviling and the agony, the spitting, the scourging, and the shame; and you won't face the Vicar of Newport for Him! Youcan't walk half a mile, and ask a civil question of a man from whom youexpect a civil answer, for love of the Man who came down all the wayfrom Heaven to earth, and endured all the contradiction of sinners forthree-and-thirty years, and faced all the malice of the devil, for thelove of you! Are you ashamed of yourself, Thomas de Vaux, or are younot?"

When it reached that point, Father Thomas was painting in a book. Booksin those days were often ornamented with very beautiful paintings: andthe one on which the priest was working, represented Peter denyingChrist in the High Priest's palace. He had just painted one side ofPeter's hair, but the other side was still blank. But when the Angelasked that question, down went the brush. 

"Lord, pardon Thy servant!" said Father Thomas humbly. "I am not worthyto carry so much as the corner of Thy cross after Thee. But I will takeit up, and go forth. Indeed, I did not know I was such a selfish, lazy, ease-loving man as I am!"

Saint Peter had to put up with only half his hair for the rest of thatday, for Father Thomas determinately washed and wiped his brush, threw acloth over his book and painting tools to keep them from the dust, puton his fur cap, and went off to see the Vicar of Newport. 

When a man braces himself up to do something which he does not like forthe love of God, sometimes God makes it a great deal easier and lessdisagreeable than he expected to find it. The Vicar was just coming outof his door as Father Thomas reached it. 

"A fine day--peace be with thee!" said he. "Whither go you, Brother?"

"May I have your leave, Father, to visit one of your parishioners--thesmith that dwells about a mile hence, on the Newport road?"

"The saints love you! you may visit every man Jack of my parishioners, and take my blessing with you!" said the Vicar with a hearty laugh. "Iam not over fond of that same visiting of smiths and tailors and fellowsof that sort. I never know what to say to them, save hear confession, and they never have nought to say to me. You are cut from anotherquality of stuff, I reckon. Go your way, Brother Thomas, and makedecent Christians of them if you can. There's a she-bear lives there: Iwish you luck with her. "

And with a farewell nod, the careless Vicar strode away. 

"And into such hands as these, men's souls are given!" thought FatherThomas. "Lord, purify Thy Church! Ah, dear old Bishop! you might wellweep in dying. "

He walked on rapidly till he came within sight of the forge. DanielGreensmith's ringing blows on the anvil grew more and more distinct andat last the words he was singing as he worked came to the priest's ears:

 "All things turn unto decay, Fall, and die, and pass away. Sinketh tower and droppeth wall, Cloth shall fray and horse shall fall, Flesh shall die and iron rust, Pass and perish all things must. Well I understand and say, All shall die, both priest and lay; And small time, for praise or blame, When man dieth, lives his fame. "

Note. This is translated from an old French poem, written before thetime of the story. 

Father Thomas stopped beside the anvil, but the smith's back was turned, so that he did not see him. 

"A sad song, my friend--if that were all. "

"Eh?" said Dan, looking behind him, and then immediately throwing downthe hammer, and giving a pull to his forelock. Great respect was paidto priests at that day. "Axe your pardon, Father! Didn't see who itwere. "

"I came to see thy wife, my son. Shall I go forward?"

"Not if you're o' my mind. Happen you aren't. "

"Is she not at home?"

"Oh, ay, she's at home!"

The smith's tone might have meant that he could have wished she wassomewhere else. Father Thomas waited, till Dan flung down the hammer, and looked up at him. 

"Had ye e'er a mother?" asked he. 

"Ay, " replied the priest. 

"Was she one 'at took th' andirons to you when you didn't suit her?"

"Truly, no. She was a full good and gentle woman. "

"And had ye e'er a sister?"

"Ay; three. "

"Was they given to rugging your hair when they wasn't pleased?"

"Not at all, my son. "

"Ah! you'd best go home, I reckon. "

"What meanest thou?" asked Father Thomas, feeling much amused at thevery unusual style of Dan's reception. 

"Well!" said Dan, passing his fingers through his hair, "I mean, ifthat's the way you was fetched up, you don't know the animal you've gotto deal with here. There's five dragons i' that house o' mine: and eachon 'em's got teeth and claws, and they knows how to use 'em, they does. If one on 'em wern't a bit better nor t'others, and did not come andstand by me now and then, I should ne'er ha' lived to talk to you thiseven. Nay, I shouldn't! Best go home, Father, while you've getten acoat on your back, and some hair on your head. "

"Is it so bad as that?"

"Ah, it is!" was Dan's short but emphatic reply. 

"But surely, my son, thy wife would never use a man ill that meant hergood?"

"Think she'll stop to ask your meanin'?" said Dan, with a contemptuousgrunt. "If she's not changed sin' I come fro' dinner, she'll be a-topof you before you can say `mercy. ' And she's none a comfortable thingto have a-top of you, I give you fair warning. "

"How was she at supper, then?--no better?"

"Supper! I durstn't go in for no supper. I likes hunger better nor afray. Happen El'nor 'll steal out to me with a crust after dark. Shedoes, sometimes. "

"And how long does it take thy wife to cool down?"

Dan rubbed his forehead with his blackened hand. 

"I was wed to her, " said he, "th' year afore the great frost, if youknow when that were--and I'd better have been fruz, a deal. I've had itmortal hot ever since. She's had that time to cool down in, and she'sno cooler nor she were then. Rather, if either, t'other way on, Ireckon. "

Before Father Thomas could reply, the shrillest scream that had ever methis ears came out of the window of the smithy. 

"Ankaret!" it said. "Ankaret! An-ka-ret!"

"Ha! That's Her!" whispered Dan, as if he were awed by the sound. 

An answering scream, as shrill, but scarcely so loud, came from theneighbouring cottage. 

"Whatever do you want now?" said the second shriek. 

"What dost thou yonder, thou slatternly minx?" returned the first. "I'll mash every bone of thee, if thou doesn't come in this minute!"

"Then I sha'n't!" shrieked the second voice. "Two can play at that. "

"Who is Ankaret?" asked Father Thomas of the smith. 

"She's th' eldest o' th' dragons--that's our Ank'ret, " said Dan in thesame half-frightened whisper. "If you mun face Her, you'd best do itwhile Ank'ret's next door: both on 'em's too much for any man. Th'Angel Gabriel couldn't match the pair on 'em: leastwise, if he comesdown to axe me, _I_ sha'n't send him forward. And don't you go and sayI sent you, now. For pity's sake, don't!"

Father Thomas walked off, and knocked at the house door. He wasbeginning to think that if the former part of his task had been easierthan he expected, the latter was going to prove more difficult. Thedoor was opened by a young woman. 

"Good day, my daughter. Is thy mother within?"

"She's here, Father. Pray you, come in. "

The priest stepped inside, and sat down on a bench. For those times, the house was comfortable, and it was very clean. The young womandisappeared, and presently a pair of heavy boots came clattering downthe stairs, and Father Thomas felt pretty sure that the sweet Filomenaherself stood before him. 

"Now then, what do _you_ want?" quoth she, in a tone which did not soundas if she were delighted to see her visitor. 

"My daughter, I am a priest, " said Father Thomas gently; "and I am cometo see thee for thy good. "

"I've got eyes!" snapped Filomena. "Can't I see you're a priest?What's the good of such as you? Fat, lazy fellows that lives on thebest o' the land, wrung out of the hard earnings o' the poor, and neverdoes a stroke o' work theirselves, but sits a-twirling o' their thumbsall day long. That's what you are--the whole boiling of you! Get youout o' my house, or I'll help you!"

And Filomena took up a formidable-looking mop which stood in the corner, as if to let the priest clearly understand the sort of help which sheproposed to give him. She had tried this style of reception when theVicar took the liberty of calling on her some months before, with theresult that the appalled gentleman in question never ventured to renewhis visit, and told the anecdote with many shakes of the head over "thatshe-bear up at the smithy. " She understood how to deal with a man ofthe Vicar's stamp, and she mistakenly fancied that all priests were ofhis sort. Sadly too many of them were such lazy, careless, self-indulgent men, who, having just done as much work as served toprevent the Bishop or their consciences (when they kept any) frombecoming troublesome, let all the rest go, and thought their duty done. But Father Thomas, as the Vicar had said, was cut from another kind ofstuff. Very sensitive to rudeness or unkindness, his feelings were notpermitted to override his duty of perseverance: and while he dearlyloved peace, he was not ready to buy it at the cost of something morevaluable than itself. While he might be slow to see his duty, yet onceseen, it would not escape him again. 

The personal taunts which Filomena had launched at him he simply putaside as not worth an answer. They did not apply to him. He wasneither fat nor lazy: and if Filomena were so ignorant as to fancy thatthe clergy were paid out of the earnings of the poor, what did itmatter, when he knew they were not? He went straight to the root of thething. His words were gentle enough, but his tone was one of authority. 

"Daughter, what an unhappy woman thou art!"

Filomena's fingers slowly unclosed from the mop, which fell back intothe corner. Father Thomas said no more: he merely kept his eyes uponher. His calm dignity took effect at last. Her angry eyes fell beforehis unchanged look. She was not accustomed to hear her abuse answeredin this manner. 

"I just am!" she muttered with intense bitterness. 

"Dost thou wish to be happy?"

"That's none for the like of us. It's only for rich folks, isn'tthat, --folks as has all they wants, and a bit over. "

"No man has that, " said Father Thomas, "except the little children whosit at the feet of Jesus Christ. Become thou as a little child, andhappiness shall come to seek thee. "

"Me a little child!" There was no merriment in the laugh whichaccompanied the words. 

"Ay, even thou. For `if there be a new creature in Christ, old thingspass away; behold, all things are made new. ' [Note. 3 Corinthians five17, Vulgate version. ] That is the very childhood, my daughter--to bemade new. Will thou have it? It may be had for the asking, if it beasked of God by a true heart--that childhood of grace, which is meek, patient, gentle, loving, obedient, humble. For it is not thou thatcanst conquer Satan, but Christ in thee, that shall first conquer thee. Thou in Christ--this is safety: Christ in thee--here is strength. Seek, and thou shalt find. Farewell. "

And without giving Filomena time to answer, Father Thomas turned away, and was lost in a moment behind the bushes which separated the cottagefrom the smithy. She stood for a minute where he left her, as if shehad been struck to stone. The whole style of his address was to hersomething completely new, and so unlike anything she had expected thatfor once in her life she was at a loss. 

Filomena took up the corner of her apron and wiped her forehead, as ifshe were settling her brains into their places. 

"Well, that's a queer set-out!" said she at last, to nobody, for she wasleft alone. "Me a baby! Whatever would the fellow be at? I reckon Iwas one once. Eh, but it would be some queer to get back again! Whatdid he say? `Meek, patient, gentle, loving, obedient, humble. '_That's_ not me! Old Dan wouldn't think he'd picked up his own wife, ifI were made new o' that fashion. It didn't sound so bad, though. Wonder how it 'd be if I tried it! That chap said it would make mehappy. I'm none that, neither, nor haven't been these many years. Ehdeary me! to think of me a baby!"

While these extremely new ideas were seething in Filomena's mind, FatherThomas reached the smithy. 

"Glad to see you!" said Dan, laying down his hammer. "You did not 'bideso long!" with a grim smile. 

"Long enough, " said the priest shortly. 

"I believe you! If you wasn't glad to get your back turned, you liked atussle wi' a dragon better nor most folks. Was she white-hot, or no-but[Only] red? El'nor, she came down to me while you was in there, wi' ahunch o' bread and cheese, and she said it were gettin' smoother a bitnor it had been most part o' th' day. What said she to you?"

"Less than I said to her. "

"You dunnot mean she hearkened you?"

"Not at first. But in the end, she hearkened me, and made me noanswer. "

Dan looked his visitor all over from head to foot. 

"Well!" said he, and shook his head slowly. "Well!" and wiped his facewith his apron, "Well!" he exclaimed a third time. "If I'd ha' knowed!I'd ha' given forty marks [Note 1. ] to see th' like o' that. Eh, do'bide a minute, and let me take th' measure on you! T' chap that couldstrike our Filomena dumb mun ha' come straight fro' Heaven, for thereisn't his like o' earth! Now, Father, do just tell a body, what did yousay to her?"

"I told her how to be happy. "

Dan stared. "She wants no tellin' that, I'll go bail! she's got everymortal thing her own way. "

"That is not the way to be happy, " answered the priest. "Nay, my son, she is a most unhappy woman, and her face shows it. Thou art happierfar than she. "

Dan dropped the big hammer in sheer astonishment, and if Father Thomashad not made a rapid retreat, more than his eyes and ears would havetold him so. 

"Me happier nor our Filomena! Me! Father, dunnot be angered wi' me, but either you're downright silly, or you're somewhat more nor otherfolks. "

"I have told thee the truth, my son. Now, wilt thou do somewhat to helpthy wife to be happy? If she is happy, she will be humble and meek--happy, that is, in the way I mean. "

"I'll do aught as 'll make our Filomena meek, " replied Dan, with a shakeof his grizzled head: "but how that's going to be shaped beats me, I cantell you. Mun I climb up to th' sky and stick nails into th' moon?"

"Nay, " said the priest with a smile. "Thou shalt pray God to make heras a little child. "

"That's a corker, _that_ is!" Dan picked up the hammer, and beganmeditatively to fashion a nail. "Our Ank'ret were a babby once, " saidhe, as if to himself. "She were a bonnie un, too. She were, so! Iused to sit o' th' bench at th' door of an even, wi' her on my knee, a-smilin' up like--eh, Father, but I'll tell you what, if them timescould come back, it 'd be enough to make a chap think he'd getten intoHeaven by mistake. "

"I trust, my son, thou wilt some day find thee in Heaven, not bymistake, " said the priest. "But if so, Daniel, thou must have a care togo the right road thither. "

"Which road's that, Father?"

"It is a straight road, my son, and it is a narrow road. And the doorto it goes right through the cross whereon Jesus Christ died for theeand me. Daniel, dost thou love the Lord Jesus?"

"Well, you see, Father, I'm not much acquaint wi' Him. He's a great wayup, and I'm down here i' t' smithy. "

"He will come down here and abide with thee, my son, if thou wilt butask Him. So dear He loveth man, that He will come any whither on earthsave into sin, if so be He may have man's company. `Greater than thislove hath no man, that he give his life for his friends. '"

"Well, that stands to reason, " said Dan. "When man gives his life, hegives all there is of him. "

"Thou sayest well. And is it hard to love man that giveth his life tosave thine?"

"I reckon it 'd be harder to help it, Father. "

Father Thomas turned as if to go. "My son, " said he, "wilt thou let theLord Jesus say to the angels round His Throne, --`I gave all there was ofMe for Daniel Greensmith, and he doth not love Me for it?'"

The big smith had never had such an idea presented to him before. Hissimple, transparent, child-like nature came up into his eyes, and ranover. Men did not think it in those earlier ages any discredit to theirmanliness to let their hearts be seen. Perhaps they were wiser than weare. 

"Eh, Father, but you never mean it'd be like that?" cried poor Dan. "Somehow, it never come real to me, like as you've put it. Do you mean'at He _cares_--that it makes any matter to Him up yonder, whether oldDan at t' smithy loves Him or not? I'm no-but a common smith. There'shundreds just like me. Does He really care, think you?"

"Thou art a man, " said the priest, "and it was for men Christ died. Andthere is none other of thee, though there were millions like thee. Is atrue mother content with any babe in exchange for her own, because thereare hundreds of babes in the world? Nay, Daniel Greensmith, it was forthee the Lord Christ shed His blood on the cruel cross, and it isthyself whose love and thanksgivings He will miss, though all the harpsof all the angels make music around His ear. Shall He miss them anylonger, my son?"

Once more Dan threw aside the big hammer--this time on the inner side ofthe smithy. 

"Father, " said he, "you've knocked me clean o'er. I never knowed tillnow as it were real. "

"As a little child!" said Father Thomas to himself, as he went back toLincoln. "The road into the kingdom will be far smoother for him thanher. Yet the good Lord can lead them both there. "

The very next visit that Dan paid to Avice and Bertha showed themplainly that a change of some sort had come over him, and as time wenton they saw it still more plainly. His heart had opened to the love ofChrist like a flower to the sunlight. The moment that he really sawHim, he accepted Him. With how many is it not the case that they do notlove Christ because they do not know Him, and they do not know Himbecause no one of those who do puts Him plainly before them?

It was much longer before Father Thomas and Avice saw any fruit of theirprayers for Filomena. There was so much more to undo in her case thanin her husband's, that the growth was a great deal slower and lessapparent. Avice discovered that Dan's complaints were fewer, but sheset it down entirely to the change in himself, long before she noticedthat Filomena's voice was less sharp, and her fats of fury lessfrequent. But at length the day came when Filomena, having beenbetrayed into a very mild copy of one of her old storms of temper, wouldsuddenly catch herself up and walk determinately out of the back doortill she grew cool: and when she came back would lay her hand upon herhusband's shoulder, and say--

"Dan, old man, I'm sorry I was bad to thee. Forgive me!"

And Dan, at first astounded beyond measure, grew to accept thisconclusion as a matter of course, and to say--

"Let her alone, and she'll come round. "

And then Avice's eyes were opened. 

One day, when she was unusually softened by the death of Susanna's baby, Filomena opened her heart to her niece. 

"Eh, Avice, it's hard work! Nobody knows how hard, that hasn't had atemper as mastered 'em. I've pretty nigh to bite my tongue through, many a time a day. I wish I'd begun sooner--I do! It'd ha' come easiera deal then. But I'm trying hard, and I hope our Lord'll help me. Thoudoes think He'll help me, doesn't thou, Avice? I'm not too bad, am I?"

"Father Thomas says, Aunt, " replied Avice, "that God helps all those whowant His help: and the worse we are, the more we want of His mercy. "

"That's true!" said Filomena. 

"And Father Thomas says, " continued Avice, "that we must all go to ourLord just like little children, ready to take what He sees good for us, and telling Him all our needs of body and soul, as a child would tellits mother. "

They were walking slowly up Steephill when Avice said this. 

"Father Thomas has one apt scholar, " said the priest's unexpected voicebehind her. "But it was a Greater than I, my daughter, who told Hisdisciples that `whosoever did not receive the kingdom of God as a littlechild, should in no wise enter therein. '"

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Note 1. A mark was 13 shillings 4 pence, and was the largest piece ofmoney then known. 

THE END.