I SHALL never forget that beginning. It was like the lightning flash, which always comes suddenly, albeit one may have seen the clouds gathering for hours, and even have heard distant growls and mutterings of thunder. Of such growls and mutterings there had indeed been a plenty when I was quite a little maid, living with my kinswoman, Lady Peckham, in Somersetshire. I remember well my lady's wrath and consternation at hearing that my Lord Cardinal had put down some thirty or more of the small religious houses, especially convents of nuns, and had confiscated their revenues to the endowment of his grand college foundation at Oxford. There was no talk of pensions and sustenance for old or young. The poor souls were turned adrift to shift as best they might. If my Lord Cardinal were alive to see the havoc that hath been made since, he might bethink himself (if he ever happened to hear it) of a certain pithy proverb about showing the cat the way to the cream. The cat hath lapped the cream pretty clean in these days.

I had a personal interest in that same measure of my Lord Cardinal, seeing I was myself destined for one of those very convents, a small, but reputable house of Gray Nuns, not far from Bridgewater. I was the daughter of a kinsman of my Lady Peckham's first husband, and being left an orphan of tender years and wholly without provision, my lady charitably took me into her protection and care, and gave me a home, intending to bring me up till such age as I should be fit to make a profession. But the convent was suppressed, as I have said, and so that cake was dough. The sisters—there were not more than eighteen or twenty in all—found places where they could. Some went to their friends, some to other houses of the same order. One went to live in the family of a master baker in Bridgewater, where she afterward married. I saw her not long since, a fine stately old dame, and a great blessing to her own family as well as to the poor of the town. One—Sister Benedict—came to stay with my lady till she could find suitable convoy to another house of Bernardines not far from London.

I don't think that in her secret heart my lady was very sorry to have an excuse for keeping me with her a while longer. I had grown a handy little maid, tall of my age, and having no daughters of her own, it was but natural she should take to me, especially as I was very fond of her. I liked nothing better than to follow her around like a little dog, carrying her basket or her keys, and running with good will to do her errands about the house and garden. I believe I might have done the same as long as I lived, only for Sister Benedict, who came to stay with us, as I said, and who must needs put her finger in the pie.

My lady had a son by her first marriage—Walter Corbet by name—who was destined by his mother for holy orders. He was several years older than I, and we were great friends, as was but natural. He helped me in my lessons, specially in my Latin, which I learned with him of Sir John Watson, our kind old parish priest and domestic chaplain, and fought my battles and those of my pet cats against Randall Peckham who, though not a bad lad in the main, was rather too fond of teasing.

Poor Randall was sent to Oxford, where he went altogether to the bad, ran away leaving more than a hundred pounds of debt behind him, and (so we heard) was cast away on a ship going to Holland. He was his mother's pride and darling, and her heart was almost broken. I have always believed, ever since I was old enough to think about the matter, that Sister Benedict persuaded my lady that her holding back Walter and myself from that service to which we had been promised had brought this judgment upon her.

Walter declared that, though he might consent to be a parish priest, he would never be a monk, and he was one not easy to be moved when once his mind was made up, though he never stuck out about trifles—not like poor Randall, who could be coaxed or flattered out of any principles he ever had, while he would be obstinate even to folly about the trimming of a glove, or the management of a hawk. So my lady was fain to compromise the matter, and Walter was sent to Bridgewater to study with Sir Richard Lambert, a very learned priest with a great reputation for sanctity. (Of course I did not know all this at the time, being but a child.)

I was sent away with Sister Benedict, to go to my father's brother, a rich merchant in London, trading to the Low Countries. That was the story. Sir Edward had all along been opposed to bestowing me in a convent, and after the suppression of the Gray Nuns' house, he had spoken his mind freely to my lady, saying that he would not have me disposed of in that way without my own consent, and that no more should be said about the matter till I was of age to judge for myself. My lady seemed to acquiesce, as indeed she always did on the rare occasions when Sir Edward asserted his will, and I suppose she might really be glad of the excuse to keep me at home, for, as I have said, she liked to have me about her.

But Sir Edward went away, being sent to Scotland on public business by the King, and Sister Benedict came, and the upshot of the matter was, that I was sent to London to see my uncle and little cousins. As soon as Sister Benedict could make proper arrangements, I was to be transferred to the convent of Bernardines at Dartford, a very rich and reputable house. I don't think it was meant that I should know this, but my lady's woman let the cat out of the bag, and my lady, finding I knew so much, told me the rest herself—so I knew what to look for.

The journey to London was longer and harder then than now, and very dangerous withal. But my Lord Abbot of Glastonbury, who was Sister Benedict's uncle, was going up to town with a great following, and we traveled in his train; so we escaped the dangers of the road, and met with far more consideration than we should otherwise have done. Nevertheless, I remember that Sister Benedict was highly indignant at certain instances of disrespect shown to her uncle by the gentry and others whom we met, and mourned over the degeneracy of the times. The truth was, the thunder-cloud was even then lying low in the sky, and men felt its influence as dumb creatures do that of a natural storm before it comes.

Well, we reached London at last, and glad was I when our journey was done, though sorry to part with Sister Benedict, who, her point once gained, was very kind to me. However, I had so much to engage my attention that I did not feel the parting so deeply as might perhaps have been expected.

Mine uncle lived in Portsoken ward, in a very fine house built by his grandfather, but greatly enlarged and embellished by his father and himself. It had a large courtyard, and a garden at the back, wherein were some huge apple trees and a great standard pear tree, besides others for shade and beauty. All the Corbets are fond of gardening, and my Uncle Gabriel was no exception to the rule. At that time (and I suppose the same is true now) the great merchants of London lived very handsomely, and enjoyed many luxuries which had not been so much as heard of in our remote corner of the world. I was met at the door by a most lovely old lady, who kissed me on both cheeks, and informed me that she was my great-aunt, my Grandfather Corbet's sister.

"And so you are poor Richard's child! I remember him well, a little lad no bigger than you, if as big. You don't favor him greatly, and yet there is a Corbet look about you, too. What was your mother's name?"

I managed to say that it was Loveday Carey.

"Yes, yes, I remember. And how old are you? But never mind now. You must need refreshment after your long journey, but I suppose you have not come very far to-day."

She led me by the hand toward the foot of a grand staircase, far finer than that at Peckham Hall; but as we reached it, I started back in utter dismay from what I conceived to be no less than the devil himself—namely, the figure of a man black as ebony, and rather fantastically dressed, who stood bowing and showing his white teeth in a manner which seemed to me to warrant the conclusion that I was instantly to be devoured. I clung to my aunt's arm, and uttered, I suppose, some exclamation of dismay. My terror seemed greatly to amuse the creature, which now giggled outright.

"What is it?" said my aunt, as I let go of her hand and retreated behind her.

"The black man!" I faltered.

"Oh, poor Sambo? I suppose you never saw a blackamoor before. But don't be frightened, child. He is a human creature like ourselves, and hath kind heart, and is a good Christian, too; are you not, Sambo?"

Thereupon the negro made the sign of the cross, and showed me a crucifix which hung about his neck.

"You will soon learn to like him as well as our children do," said my aunt. "Go, Sambo, and bring up the young lady's mails."

Sambo grinned again wider than ever, and betook himself to the side door, where an attendant of my Lord Abbot's was waiting with my baggage.

Thus reassured, I ventured to pass him, and followed my aunt up the stairs into the very finest room I had ever seen. My uncle's house is built with the upper stories projecting over the lower. I always had a fancy that it was leaning over to look down the street. There was a great oriel window, with many panes of stained glass, which formed a deep recess. On the floor of this recess lay a beautiful carpet, such an one as I had never seen before. I could not conceive how such a beautiful fabric chanced to be in such a situation, for the two or three Turkey rugs we possessed at Peckham house were used as coverings for tables and beds. A great East country cabinet stood in this recess, and before it a carved arm-chair. The walls of the room were hung with Spanish leather most curiously wrought with gold and silver figures; the furniture was partly of damask and partly of Cordovan leather. At the other end of the apartment was a second large window looking upon the street, as the first did upon the garden. Here stood a low chair, and a basket piled up with homely household work.

"This is my place!" said Aunt Joyce—so she bade me call her. "And now I will call your cousins to take you to your own room, where you will find your mails, and they will help you to change your traveling dress, that you may be neat when my nephew comes home to dinner at eleven. We all dine together, though I doubt such late hours are not very good for the health of the young ones. When I was young, I never dined later than nine o'clock, nor thought of sitting at table with my parents. But times are changed—times are changed—and my nephew hath a right to command in his own house."

I began to wonder when she was going to stop talking long enough to call my cousins, but at last she blew her silver whistle, which hung with her keys at her girdle, and presently two pretty little girls, some years older than myself, made their appearance, and were introduced to me as my cousins, Avice and Katherine. They were twins, and more alike than any two people I ever saw. They were wonderfully fair, with thick, soft, curling hair of the color of new flax, or a thought yellower; clear, transparent gray eyes, and a lovely bloom on their cheeks. I fell in love with them on the instant. They only courtesied when presented to me, and, giving me each a hand, led me away.

As we passed a great Venice glass, I remember being struck with the difference in our looks, for I was ever a true Corbet, with the great dark eyes, level black brows, and crisp hair of my race—a regular black Corby, as poor Randall used to call me.

The twins led me up the staircase and into a room furnished with blue, where were two little beds and a truckle for a servant. Out of this opened a large light closet, where I found my mails. As soon as we were alone, the girls found their tongues.

"We are glad you have come to live with us!" said Avice, who was always the first speaker, and indeed took the lead in every thing, as I found out afterward.

"Yes, we are very glad, because it will be like having our sister again!" said Katherine.

"A little like it!" said Avice. And then, seeming to feel she had hurt my feelings, she added—

"You know nobody can be quite like one's own sister, but I am sure we shall love you, Cousin Loveday!"

"And I am sure I shall love you!" I returned warmly. And then I ventured to ask: "Did you have another sister, and is she dead?"

"Yes!" said Avice, with a quivering lip. "She was a beautiful little girl, and she looked a little like you, for she had dark hair and eyes. But she fell into the chincough, and then into a long waste, and died in spite of all that could be done."

"But she has gone to paradise—I am sure she has, and we shall see her again some day," added Katherine, her eyes shining with a kind of steadfast light. "I could not bear it, only for thinking of that."

There was a little silence, and then Avice asked me how old I was.

"I shall be nine years old come Michaelmas—and you?"

"We shall be twelve on Midsummer day. Can you read, cousin?"

"Oh yes!" I answered, not without a little feeling of vain-glory, I dare say. "I can read and write, and I have begun Latin."

"We can read and write a little, but not well;" and then followed a comparison of accomplishments.

And soon I found I had nothing whereof to boast, since my cousins could play on the lute and the virginals, embroider in all sorts of stitches, and even knit—an art which I had only heard of at that time, as practiced in that same convent of Gray Nuns whose dissolution had sent me to London. We grew excellent friends over all these inquiries and answers, and when we were called down to dinner we descended the stairs, not hand in hand, but with our arms round each other's waists.

We went down to the ground floor this time, and I was led into a great dining-room where was a table splendidly set out—or so it seemed to my unaccustomed eyes—with snowy napery, silver and fine colored ware, such as I had never seen. They were, in fact, china dishes, then only beginning to be used by the wealthy merchants of London and the Low Countries. Sambo and one or two 'prentice lads were just placing the dinner on the table, and my uncle was standing by the window, looking out upon the garden, now all ablaze with flowers, many of which were new to me.

He turned round as I entered, and showed me one of the handsomest and kindest faces I ever beheld in my life. He was a man in middle life, tall and somewhat stout, though not unbecomingly so, with curling brown hair, a little touched with gray at the temples, large gray eyes with very long lashes, and a chestnut beard trimmed in the fashion of the day. He was richly but soberly dressed, and I noticed even then the whiteness and fineness of his linen. Sea-coal was not used in London then as much as now, and it was easier to keep clean.

"So this is my little niece, is it?" said he, kindly raising me and bending down to kiss my forehead as I kneeled to ask his blessing. "You are welcome, my dear child. May the God of thy fathers bless thee."

Even then there was something in my uncle's tone which struck me—a peculiar solemnity and earnestness, quite different from the business-like, rapid fashion in which Father Barnaby and our own Sir John used to go through the same form. It seemed as if he were really speaking to some one. He caused me to sit at his right hand, and helped me bountifully from the dish of roast fowls which stood before him. The dinner was elegantly served, and Sambo showed such skill in waiting on his master, and such alacrity in helping me to sweetmeats that I found my dislike to him sensibly diminishing.

Of course we children did not speak at the table, and indeed I was too busy making my remarks on all I saw to care even for eating. I admired the china dishes, so hard and light and so beautifully painted; the clear glass and finely wrought silver; and I once or twice really forgot to eat in gazing through the great glass window at the flower garden.

"You are looking at the flowers!" said my uncle. "After dinner we will go and see them nearer."

At that moment something made an odd scratching noise on the glass door which led into the garden. Sambo looked at his master, who smiled and nodded. He opened the door and in walked a stately creature, which I should hardly have guessed to be a mere cat, only for his loud musical purr. He was immensely large, and had fur that almost dragged on the ground, a bushy tail, and a mane or collar of much longer fur round his neck, and as he was of a yellowish color, he looked not unlike a little lion. He marched up to my uncle's side, where Sambo had already set a joint-stool for his accommodation, but seeing a stranger at table, he turned and greeted me with great politeness, rubbing his head on my arm as if to invite my caresses.

"Do not be afraid," said my uncle, seeing me shrink a little, for indeed the creature's great size and strength made him somewhat formidable to a stranger. "He is the best-tempered fellow in the world, and a famous playmate, as you will soon find out."

Hearing this, and seeing the cat was evidently a favorite of my uncle's, I ventured—having finished my dinner—to stroke him, an attention which he received with condescending kindness. My aunt poured some cream into a saucer, and Turk drank it as calmly as if it were a matter of course—as indeed it was for him—to sit at table and eat cream.

"Loveday opens her eyes!" said my aunt. "I dare say she never saw a cat sit at table and be served like a Christian before. Do you like pets, Niece Loveday?"

"Yes, madam!" I answered, and indeed I had a kind of passion for them, which I had heretofore gratified almost on the sly, for my Lady Peckham did not like pet animals of any kind.

"That is well, for we have plenty of them," said my aunt. "Sambo must show you his popinjay."

Sambo bowed, and grinned till his face seemed all white teeth.

"There, run away, children, and play in the garden if you like!" said my uncle. "Take Loveday to see the flowers."

We went out into the garden, and the girls showed me many lovely flowers, such as I had never seen before.

"My father trades with the Dutch merchants, who bring all sorts of curious plants from the Indies," said Katherine. "That is the way we got our cat and Sambo."

"Father bought Sambo from a man who treated him cruelly," added Avice. "When he first came here he was a heathen, but my aunt has taught him better, and now he can say his paternoster and creed in English. We all like him because he is so droll and so kind. My Lord Cardinal wanted him for a fool, but my father would not give him up."

"I never saw a black man before," said I. "I did not know there were such things, and when I first saw him I thought it was the evil one himself."

"Some of our neighbors believe he is not quite right," observed Katherine, "but he is as good a Christian as any one."

"Better than some, because he is grateful!" said Avice. "Come, now, and we will show you the last new tree our father got from foreign parts. There is not another in the country, and we are in a great hurry to have it bloom, that we may see what the flowers are like."

I duly admired the foreign tree, or shrub, which had thick, glossy loaves, and on which the flower buds were just forming, and then, Turk appearing and putting in a claim for notice, we had a great frolic with him, and found him an excellent playfellow, as my uncle had said.

When we went into the house, my aunt called me up stairs and showed me my clothes neatly arranged in a press, while a small blue bed, like my cousins', was being put up for me in the light closet I have mentioned.

"This will be your room as long as you stay here," said she. "Let me see that you keep it neat and orderly, as a young maid should."

I courtesied, and said I would do my best. The little room was very pretty, and even luxurious, in my eyes. There were no rushes on the floor, such as I had been used to seeing—and I now perceived, for the first time, what it was that made the floors all over the house seem so strange and bare to me.

"That is one of my nephew's new-fangled ways, as old Dame Madge calls them," pursued my aunt. "He learned it in Holland among the Dutch, who are the cleanest folks in the world."

"Yes, new-fangled ways," muttered the old dame, who was mending somewhat about my bed curtains. "It was never a good world since these new ways came up. But we shall see—we shall see!"

"I must needs allow that the air in the house is much sweeter since we disused the rushes, which are a great cover for dirt and vermin," pursued my aunt; "though it makes a great deal of work, washing and polishing the floors."

"I noticed how sweet the house smelled," I ventured to say. "I think the floors look pretty, only—" and then I stopped in some confusion, as it occurred to me that I was making very free.

"Well, only what?" asked my aunt.

"Only it seems a pity to see such fine rugs laid down to be walked on," I answered. "We had only two at Peckham Hall, and one was on the state bed and the other on my lady's own."

"You are an observing child. Sambo says the Turks use these rugs just as my brother does, and that they kneel on them to say their prayers—poor, deluded creatures."

My aunt chatted on, and I stood by her side, well content to listen to her and answer her questions. She had a remarkable way of putting every one at their ease, both gentle and simple. We never had a new housemaid or 'prentice who did not at once fall in love with Mistress Holland.

"You must not mind if Dame Madge is a little crabbed sometimes!" said my aunt, as the old woman left the room. "She is jealous of all newcomers, and would fain keep the favor of master and mistress altogether to herself. There, now, all is done, I believe," she added, as she hung a holy water basin and crucifix at the head of the bed. "I hope you will be happy here, my child."

"I am sure I shall!" I answered, with perfect sincerity, and then, all at once, I remembered that this pleasant house was not my home after all—that in a few days Mother Benedict would probably come and carry me off to that fate which had been waiting for me all my life. I suppose my face showed my thoughts, for my aunt noticed the change—as what did she not notice which concerned the comfort of others—and asked me what was the matter.

"It is a change for you, I know, but you must try not to be homesick."

"I am not homesick!" I answered. "Only—" and then I dropped on my knees, hid my face in my aunt's lap and burst out crying. I don't know what made me. I should never have thought of such a thing with my lady, who, though always kind, did never invite my caresses.

"What is it, dear heart? What makes thee cry? Tell Aunt Joyce what ails thee, my dear, tender lamb, now do?" said my aunt, who was apt, in times of interest, to return to her native Devon. I remember, as though it were yesterday, how sweetly sounded in mine ears the homely accent, and the words of endearment which I suppose might find some echo in my childish remembrance. Sure 'tis a cruel thing to deprive young creatures of those caresses which even the dumb beasts bestow upon their young. I have always thought that if my lady had been more tender and gentle with poor Randall, he might have been different.

"Only I can't stay here!" I sobbed at last. "Pretty soon Mother Benedict will send or come for me, and I shall have to go to the convent, to be shut up and never see any body, or run in the fields any more, and to wear a horrid gray robe, and a veil—" and here I broke down again.

"My child, I think you are borrowing trouble!" said my aunt, with a perplexed look. "I thought you were coming to live with us. I heard nothing about any convent."

"But I am to go to the convent!" I answered. "My lady said so."

"Well, well, we will talk to my nephew about it!" said my aunt. "Don't cry any more, there's a lamb, but wash your face and come down stairs with me, and by and by we will go and take a walk in the fields and see the old people in the almshouses. Can you sew?"

"Oh yes, aunt!"

"Then you shall help me a little, if you will. I am making some napkins of old worn linen for one of the bedeswomen who has watering eyes, and you shall hem one for me. As for the convent, I would not trouble about that just now, at any rate. It will be time enough when you have to go there."

Somewhat comforted, I washed away the traces of my tears with the rosewater my aunt gave me, and followed her down stairs to the parlor, where my cousins were already sitting, the one at her sampler, the other at her lute, which she played very prettily for a child.

If my aunt was in a hurry for the napkins she gave me to hem, she did not act wisely in seating me at the window, for I saw so much to observe and admire that my work went on but slowly. But I suppose her object was rather to divert me from my grief, and in that she certainly succeeded. Now it was some gay nobleman of the court with two or three attendants, all glittering in gold and embroidery who passed by—now a showman with a tame jackanape or a dancing bear—then a priest under a gorgeous canopy, carrying the host in its splendid receptacle to some dying person.

I can't pretend to recite all the wonderful things I saw. I could not help wondering where all the people found lodging, and how they found their way home at night. Now London is far more crowded than it was then, and it increases all the time, despite the laws made to check the growth of large towns. But I do not think it can ever be much larger than it is at present.

[CHAPTER II.]

MORE REMEMBRANCES.

ABOUT four o'clock my uncle came in from his business, and we had each a bun and somewhat else—at least we young ones did—for my uncle never ate between dinner and supper. He greeted me kindly, asked how I had passed my day, looked at and commended my work and that of his daughters, and asked them if they had somewhat to repeat to him. Whereat Katherine recited the twenty-third psalm in English, and Avice a part of the hundred and nineteenth.

"And what can my little niece say for me?" he asked.

"I can say the penitential psalms in Latin," I answered; "but I do not know them in English."

"Then you shall read a little for me instead," said he; and drawing me to his side he took from his desk a bound book, and turning over the leaves, he pointed out a passage, which I read. It was new and strange to me, for it talked of God's care for flowers and little fowls, and bade men consider that, as they were worth much more than these things, so our Heavenly Father would provide for all our needs. It ended thus:

"Care not therfore for the daye foloynge. For the daye foloynge shall care ffor yt sylfe. Eche dayes trouble ys sufficient for the same silfe day."

"Do you know whose words these are?" asked my uncle, as I finished.

"No, uncle," I answered.

"They are our dear Lord's own words," said he, "and spoken for our comfort. Do not you forget them."

"I suppose Our Lady made Him say them!" I ventured to remark.

"No, dear child. Our Lord needs no one to make Him send us comfort and help, since He himself loves us, and died to redeem us. Never doubt his love, my child. That never fails those who seek him, and even though he leads them through dark and troubled waters—nay, even through the very fiery furnace—it is but to guide them to his rest at last."

I saw my aunt sigh at these words, as if they had some meaning more than met the ear. For my own part, they filled me with amazement. I had always been taught to think of our Lord as a harsh and severe judge, who relented toward us—when he did relent—only at the intercession, or rather commands, of Our Lady, his mother. It seemed very strange; but I was presently diverted from the consideration thereof by my uncle's next words.

"Did my Lady Peckham send me no letter by you, dear child?"

"Oh, yes, uncle!" I answered, remembering all at once the packet my lady had placed among my things, with a strict injunction to deliver it to Master Gabriel Corbet directly on my arrival. I ran up to my room, and finding the package safe and sound in my book of Hours, where it had been laid for safe keeping, I brought it down and put it into my uncle's hand. He cut the band of floss silk which confined it, and was soon engaged in its perusal. Seeing, I suppose, that I was watching his face, my aunt directed my attention to some pageant passing in the street. My eyes, however, soon stole back to my uncle's face, and I was startled to see the change and the look of grief which had come over it. Forgetting all decorum in my anxiety, I cried out:

"Oh, uncle, must I go to the convent? I will be so good if you will only let me stay here."

Katherine and Avice looked scared, and so was I when I bethought me of what I had done. My uncle, however, did not seem angry. On the contrary, he put out his hand and drew me toward him.

"Listen to me, Loveday, and you also, my children, and learn what it costs to nourish a grudge," said he. "When we were both young, my brother and I quarreled. No matter about what. I thought myself wholly the injured party, and, despite all our good mother's efforts, I would not be reconciled. So my brother, who was the younger of us two, after vainly trying to bring me to a better mind, betook himself with his young wife to a little estate in the west country, which had been left him by a kinsman."

"More than once did he send overtures for a reconciliation, but I—miserable sinner that I was—would not even read his letters. Meantime he, riding home from market, was set upon by robbers and miserably murdered. A brother of the kinsman who left him the estate started up with a claim which was made good, by the help of some great man his patron. My sister died from the effects of grief, and this poor child was thrown upon the world without a protector, and but for the kindness of my Lady Peckham, whose husband was her kinsman, she might have grown up a wretched, forlorn beggar."

"I humbly thank my dearest Lord," and here he raised his cap, "who hath both granted me conviction of sin and His forgiveness for the same; but He, like earthly parents, sometimes leaves the offender to smart for his fault, even though he is forgiven. I, who would give my hand, could it avail, to call my brother's daughter my own and bring her up as such, have forfeited that right by my cruel and unfeeling conduct. My Lady Peckham has the right to dispose of Loveday, and it is her will that she should go to be brought up at the convent of Gray Nuns not far from Dartford."

So there was no help for it. I had much ado to restrain my sobs, and I saw the gray eyes of the twins fill with tears.

"But, uncle," I faltered and then stopped.

"Loveday does not like the thought of being a nun!" said my aunt Joyce, finishing the sentence for me.

"She is not to become one just now!" said my uncle. "It seems my lady has promised her husband, Sir Edward, that she shall not be professed till she is twenty-one, nor then, unless by her own choice."

"Heaven help her, what choice will she have by that time?" said my aunt.

"A good many things may happen in twelve years!" answered my uncle, dryly. "These are days of change and shaking, you know, aunt. But as Loveday is not to go to this same convent till she is sent for, we will enjoy her company while she is here. 'Each day's trouble is sufficient for the same selfe day,' as we have just read. But, my children, if your father has humbled himself before you, let not the lesson be lost upon you. Remember, never to let the seed of anger and malice take root in your hearts—no, not for an hour. Sure you may see in my case what evil and bitter fruit it may—nay, must bring forth—yea, even after the sin hath been confessed and done away by Christ His own blood and sacrifice."

Young as I was, these words of my uncle made an impression on my mind which was never wholly defaced, though covered by the teachings of later years. My lady's contrivance for evading her promise to her husband was certainly ingenious. In these days we should call it Jesuitical, but we had not then begun to hear very much about the Jesuits, though there has been coil enough since.

"It is a pleasant evening, and the air is fresh and cool after the warm day," said my uncle, after a little pause. "Get your hoods, my children, and we will walk out to the Minories, and then visit the old people at the almshouse."

Children's hearts are light. Of course I was pleased at the notion of a walk, and by the time I had been out half an hour I had persuaded myself that something might come to pass to prevent my going to the nunnery after all; and I was ready to observe and enjoy all the sights of the way. We had not gone far before I heard a great whining and grunting behind us, and looking round I perceived that we were followed by two lusty, well-fed pigs, which showed every desire for a better acquaintance. I had a dislike to hogs, and was always a little afraid of them. I pressed closer to my uncle, who was leading me by the hand, the twins going before us, and Sambo following with a great can, the use of which I did not understand.

"What is it?" said my uncle—then seeing the direction of my eyes. "Oh, the pigs; they will not hurt you. Why a country maid should not fear pigs, surely. But you wonder why they follow us; I will show you."

He took from his pockets some crusts of bread which he threw to the pigs, and of which they partook with little grunts of content and much shaking of broad ears and curly tails. I even fancied they cast glances of positive regard and affection from their queer little eyes. Their repast being ended, they turned and trotted back, I suppose, to wait for some other patron.

"Those are St. Anthony's pigs," said my uncle. "The proctors of St. Anthony's Hospital are used to take from the market people such pigs as are ill-fed and unfit for meat. These have the ear slit and a bell tied round their necks, and being thus, as it were, made free of the city, they wander about at will, and being fed by charitable persons become very tame and familiar, and learn to know and watch for their patrons, as you see. But these fellows are growing so fat, I fear I shall not have them to feed much longer. As soon as they grow plump and well-liking, the proctor takes them up and they are slaughtered for the use of the hospital."

It seemed to me rather odd even then, I remember, that a saint should be a patron of pigs, but I could not help thinking I should have liked St. Anthony far better than St. Dominic, who tore the poor sparrow in pieces for coming into church. We had now gone quite a little way from home, when we passed an abbey or convent shut in behind a high wall, and I saw that there was an open space before us.

In effect, we soon came to a great green field, where were collected many fine cows, some lying down chewing the cud, others in the milker's hands, and still others patiently waiting their turn. A sturdy, farmer-looking man was overseeing the work, and a neat woman was straining the milk and pouring it warm and rich into the vessels brought for its reception. I noticed that she gave good measure and many a kind word to the feeble old bodies and little children who brought their jugs and their half-pence. *

"Well, Dame Goodman," said my uncle, "you are busy as ever."

* This was that tract now known as Goodman's fields.

"Oh, yes, your worship, we are always busy at this hour," answered the dame. "More people come to us at night than in the morning. Where is your half-penny, Cicely Higgins?"

"I have none to-night," answered a pale scared-looking child. "Mother has been sick all week, and we have no money."

"And where is your father?"

"I don't know," answered the child sadly. "We have not seen him in many days, and mother cries so I can't ask her."

"He is where he deserves to be, and that is in prison, from which he will come to be burned with the next batch of heretics!" said a sour, thin-faced old woman. "And serve him right, too, for speaking slightingly of the Blessed Virgin. I would they were all served with the same sauce."

"For shame, dame! Have you a woman's heart in your breast, that you speak so to the worse than orphan child?" said my uncle, indignantly.

"Oh, ho! I did not know your worship was so near," answered the old woman, with a cackling laugh. "Methinks we are very tender to heretics—we are!"

"We are tender to other sinners besides heretics, or a wicked, hard-hearted old woman, who owes two quarters rent, would be turned into the street as she deserves," rejoined my aunt, severely. "You had better keep civil words, Dame Davis, at least until you can pay your debts."

The old woman turned pale at this home thrust, and muttering something about meaning no harm, retired into the crowd. My uncle asked the child a few questions, and then, turning to the dame who was measuring the milk, he bade her fill the child's pitcher, at the same time putting a piece of silver into her hand.

"That I will, your worship, and give her good measure too!" answered Dame Goodman. "Jenny Higgins is a good, hard-working creature, and not to be blamed for her husband's follies. Drat the man, why can't he believe as his betters tell him, and not go prying where he has no business?"

My uncle smiled, but sadly methought, and Sambo's great can being filled, we walked away by another road.

"Who was that old woman, aunt? You seemed to know her," said he presently.

"Who was it but old Madge Davis, who lives in your house in the Minories, and has paid no rent for six months," answered my aunt. "She is a bad handful, and keeps the other tenants in constant hot water by her meddling and tattling."

"That must be seen to. I think we will put her in the cottage with old John. He is so deaf she can not tattle to him, and there will be no one else to quarrel with."

"Most people would turn her into the street," said my aunt; "and indeed she deserves nothing better."

"Ah, dear aunt, were we all to have our deserts, who should escape?" asked my uncle, sighing. "It would ill become me, to whom have been forgiven ten thousand talents, to take my fellow-servant by the throat who owes me but an hundred pence."

I did not understand the allusion at the time, but afterward I read the story aloud to my uncle in his great book.

We had now come some distance and were arrived at another field, inclosed, but with convenient paths and turnstiles for foot passengers. On the side of this field toward the street were about half a dozen small, but neat and well-built two-story cottages, each with its little garden-plot stocked with pot herbs and some homely flowers. In most of them the windows were open, and on the sills, which were quite low, lay a clean white cloth and a rosary. The inmates were mostly bed-rid, but in one or two the old man or woman might be seen sitting bolstered up in a great chair. I at once guessed that these were almshouses of some sort. My cousins told me afterward that they were founded by some prior of the Priory of Trinity, a kinsman of our own, who had left a provision for the care of the poor bedesmen and women.

I now found out the use of the great can of milk which Sambo had brought from the abbey field. In every window stood a little brown jug, which the blackamoor proceeded to fill from the vessel he carried. The good fellow seemed to enjoy his work of charity, to judge by the grins and nods he bestowed on the old folks. Most thanked him heartily, but one old woman turned away her head, and when my aunt rather mischievously asked her if she did not want any milk, she muttered that it turned her against it to see that heathen pour it out.

"Never mind her," said my uncle to Sambo, who looked greatly affronted, as well he might. "She is a poor childish creature you know," and, taking the can from the black man's hand, he filled the jug himself, and passed on smiling, while Sambo muttered that Massa was a heap too good.

The last cottage was the neatest in the row, and a hale-looking old man was training a honeysuckle round the door. I wondered why he was there, till I looked in at the window and espied a wasted old woman propped up in the bed, looking more like death than life. My uncle stopped and entered into conversation with the old man, while we young ones made acquaintance with a white cat and two kittens which were basking in the sun.

"With all my heart—with all my heart!" we heard the old man say, presently. "There is plenty of room up stairs and the little lass can wait on Mary at odd times. Poor soul, poor soul! But will not your worship come in and have a word with my poor dame? It does her so much good. And meantime the young ladies can look at the garden and the birds."

We went round to the back of the house accordingly, where we found a neat little garden-plot in which was a tame sea-gull running about in company with a hedge-pig, a lame goose, and a queer little dog, which always seemed to go on three legs. We amused ourselves with the animals, which came to us at once, as if quite used to being noticed, till my uncle called us.

On the way home, he told my aunt that he had arranged with the old man to let Cicely Higgins's mother live in the upper room of his cottage for the present. It seems each of the old people were entitled to an attendant, but John being a hale man for his great age, did not avail himself of the privilege, but cared for his wife himself.

My uncle had some control over these houses by virtue of his relationship to the founder, I believe, and, therefore, could put in whom he pleased. There were many such small charitable foundations about London in those days, but they were mostly swept away in the great storm which destroyed all the religious houses in the land. It was a storm which cleared the air, no doubt, but it left some sad wrecks behind it, as is the way of tempests.

When we reached home we had supper, at which two or three of my uncle's friends joined us—elderly, sober men like himself. We young ones went to bed directly after, and thus ended my first day of London.

[CHAPTER III.]

ANOTHER CHANGE.

FOR a few days I was kept in quite a fever of suspense, thinking every time I heard a strange voice or an unusual noise in the house, that some one had come for me; but as the days passed into weeks, and the weeks into months, and I heard nothing from Mother Benedict, I began to make myself at home in my uncle's house. My old life in Somersetshire came to seem like a dream—almost as much so as that still further away time when I lived at Watcombe farm with my father and mother. I practiced my lute, and worked at my white seam and tapestry, and kept up my Latin, learning a lesson every day which I said to my uncle at night, when he never failed to reward me, when I had been diligent, with a story out of his great book. For recreation we played with our dolls and the cat, worked in our own little gardens, and took walks with my uncle and aunt to see poor people. Sometimes we had playmates of our own to visit us, but not often, and I think we preferred each other's society at all times to that of outsiders.

Once, my uncle took us out of town to spend the day with a farmer who rented certain lands from him. We went away early in the morning, my aunt riding a sober palfrey, and we children occupying a horse litter under the charge of two or three stout serving men; for, despite the severities exercised toward robbers and broken men, the ways about London were dangerous for small parties. We met with no adventures, however, and when we reached the open heath, my aunt allowed us to get down and walk, on condition that we did not go far-away.

I shall never forget how delightful was the feel of the short springy turf under my feet after the stony paths of the city. I would have liked to rove far and wide; but this my aunt forbade, and I had to content myself with gathering such flowers as grew near at hand. We arrived at the farm about nine of the clock, and found the family had risen from dinner, and were dispersed about their several occupations.

In those days a farmer's wife would rise, and have all her maids stirring by three o'clock at latest in summer-time, and her day ended by seven or eight. The whole family dined together between eight and nine, and master and mistress worked as hard as any one. Now some of our farmers' dames must ape their betters by putting off their dinners till ten o'clock, and cannot, forsooth, soil their fingers with the dung-fork. I don't know what the world is coming to for my part.

Dame Green gave us the warmest welcome, and at once set her daughters and maids to covering the table with bread and butter, cream, ginger and saffron bread, and a great cold pie like a fortification, with all sorts of country dainties. We young ones did ample justice to all the good things, but I saw that my aunt ate but little, and seemed sad and distraught.

"You have some one with you?" said my aunt, as a somewhat high-pitched voice, with a strong London accent, made itself heard without.

"Yes, my brother-in-law's widow, and I wish she were any where else!" said Dame Green, with a face of disgust. "Poor Thomas Green died bankrupt, and Mistress Jane hath no refuge but her brother's house."

"And a very good refuge too!" said my aunt. "'Tis well for her that she hath such a home open to her."

"She does not think so, madam. To hear her talk, one would think she was in banishment among the savages. I wish she were any where else than here, turning the girls' heads with her talk about tourneys and court fashions—much she ever saw of them! But here she comes to answer for herself."

As she spoke, a woman entered the room dressed in widow's mourning. She must once have been pretty, in a coarse, bouncing fashion, and she wore her weeds with a kind of jaunty air. Dame Green presented her to my aunt.

"Dear me, Mistress Holland, who would have expected to see you in the country to-day, of all days in the year!" cried the lady in a shrill, affected voice. "I should have thought you would have staid and taken the young ladies to see the spectacle. I have been fuming all the morning at being shut up in this wild place."

We children looked at each other, wondering what great sight we had missed.

My aunt replied gravely:

"Such sights are far too sad and dreadful for young eyes. Indeed, I know not how any one can take pleasure in witnessing the horrible death of a fellow-creature."

Mistress Jane looked a little abashed.

"But these are heretics and blasphemers, madam! Surely you will allow that they deserve their deaths."

"If we all had our deserts, we should be cast into a hotter fire than Smithfield!" said my aunt. "Even the fire that never can be quenched."

Mistress Jane looked decidedly offended.

"One would think you were one o' the Gospelers yourself, madam! For my part, I ever paid my dues to Holy Church and took the sacrament regular on the great feast days, and I have always given alms in charity—yes, to every begging friar that came along, besides making two pilgrimages to the shrine of Saint Thomas of Canterbury, and if that won't insure my salvation, I wonder what will? I'm not like some folks that grudge a poor widow so much as a jaunt to London," with a spiteful glance at her sister. "Every one knows 'tis a good work to assist at the burning of a heretic."

We children glanced at each other again, which my aunt seeing, after exchanging a look with our hostess, said rather quickly—

"If you have finished your dinners, children, you may run out and play."

"Yes, to be sure!" said the dame. "Dolly, take the young ladies out and show them the new chickens and the little ducklings swimming in the pond."

I, for one, would rather have staid to hear the talk in which I felt a kind of dreadful interest, but I was used to obey without a word, of course. Dolly was a nice, good-natured, bouncing girl, who was much delighted with the new ribbons and kirtle my aunt had brought for her. She did her best to entertain us; leading us all about the farm and showing us the young fowls and the lambs at play in the pasture. In the course of our rambles, we passed a little ruinous house, half-overgrown with nettles and brambles, but yet bearing the marks of having once been a church-building of some sort.

"What is that?" asked Katherine.

Dolly crossed herself. "That is the hermit's cell," said she, "but no one lives there now. The place has an evil name, and is haunted."

"Why, what is the matter with it?" asked Katherine.

Dolly hurried us to some distance from the scene, and then told us the story, which at this distance of time, I do not clearly remember, only that it was that of a hermit who was once very holy and even worked miracles.

"They say he had an image of the Virgin of such wonderful power, that it would bow its head and spread out its hands to bless whoever brought it an offering. But by and by, the hermit got into a strange way, refused to say masses in the little chapel you see there, and was heard at night, talking with some invisible person. At last, one morning when he had not been seen for a long time, search was made for him, but naught could they find but his gown and breviary, and the holy image which lay dashed all in fragments on the floor of the chapel."

This is the tale as nearly as I remember it. Dolly added, that since then, lights were often seen, and voices heard in the ruins, and that no one would go near them after dark; indeed it was regarded as so dangerous to do so that her father had strictly forbidden it.

When we returned to the house we found my uncle had arrived. He greeted us kindly as usual, but his face looked worn and had a set expression, as of one who has been forced against his will to behold some horrible sight.

But I had not much time to speculate on his face. I had not been well lately, and had been subject to fits of coldness and swooning, which my aunt declared were caused by a tertian ague. I suppose I might have over-fatigued myself, for one of these same fits came on now, and I came near falling from my seat.

I was put to bed with all speed, and dosed with I know not what hot and spicy cordials from the dame's stores; but all did not serve. I had a hard chill, and then a fever, after which I fell asleep. When I waked all was quiet, only for the noises out of doors. I felt very comfortable, though weak and disinclined to stir. So I lay still, and watched the bees buzzing in the eglantine and jasmine round the casement, till I became aware of some one talking in the next room, the door of which was half open. The voices were those of my uncle and aunt.

"So he met his death bravely?" said my aunt.

"Like a hero!" answered my uncle. "Even when he parted from his wife, who by the kindness of the sheriff was allowed to take leave of him just outside the prison gate, he showed no signs of giving way, but kissed her and sent his blessing to his child, as if he had been setting out on an ordinary journey."

"And she?"

"She was no less brave than himself, poor heart, bidding him have no care for her—she should do very well. He bade her so to live as that they should meet in heaven; whereat one that stood by struck him on the mouth, bidding him be silent for a foul-mouthed heretic. Whereat, Higgins turned to him and said calmly—'God give thee repentance, friend, for an' if He do not, thou art in a worse case than I.' When he had passed, and not before, did the poor wife fall down in a fit, and was charitably cared for by some women of her acquaintance."

"And Higgins was brave to the last?"

"Yes, to the very last moment. He would not so much as listen to the promise of pardon if he would repent, and commended his soul to God as the faggots were lighted. There was plenty of tar and resin among them, and I think he suffered not long."

"Thank Heaven!" said my aunt, and I knew by her voice that she was weeping.

"But oh, nephew, when will all this end?"

"I know not, aunt; but I trust and believe that it will end in the establishment of truth and a free Gospel in all this land. It may not be in our time, but it will surely come."

Here I made some movement, and my aunt coming to me, I heard no more. But I often thought of the conversation afterward, and puzzled over it. I had been brought up by my Lady Peckham to think a heretic the worst of criminals. Yet here were mine uncle and aunt, the very best people I had ever known, whose sympathy was clearly on the side of one at least of these heretics. Childlike, I turned the matter over and over in my mind without ever mentioning it to any one, or asking for a solution of my puzzles.

It was not thought best for me to return to London that night, and, indeed, I was not able. I staid at the farm some weeks, part of the time having my cousins for company. It was pretty dull at first, but as I grew better and able to go about, I liked it very well.

My only trouble was Mistress Jenny Green, whom I came absolutely to hate. She was always catechising me about my uncle's family, what company they kept, what furniture, etc., they had, where we went to church, and all sorts of trifling particulars. At other times she would spend hours in bewailing her hard lot, and describing the fine things she had enjoyed in her London home.

Truly, if she spent half what she said, 'tis no wonder her husband became bankrupt, poor man. Then she took a great fit of devotion—would go to matins and vespers and all other services at a convent church not far-away; kept fasts and vigils, and had even made up her mind to receive from the priest of that house the widow's mantle and ring; * but a suitor from London turning up in the shape of a smart young draper, she changed her mind, married him on the instant, and went away to London, to the great relief of her own family, and the scandal of the priest aforesaid. This I have learned since. I was too young to know much about it at the time, only I well remember how glad we were to see her go.

* It was formerly a custom for widows who did not desire to marry again to make a vow to that effect, at which time they received a mantle and ring. A breach of this vow was counted very disgraceful.

It was now drawing toward midsummer, and my health being fairly settled again, I was sent for home. I parted with my kind hostess and her family with real regret, which I fear was not altogether unselfish. At the farm I was quite a great lady, petted and waited on, and treated with great consideration.

At home, I was only little Loveday—a child of the family, taking my place with the others, having my daily tasks, and checked and reproved if I did them amiss. I began to be sullen and discontented, careless about my lessons and my work, and pert when spoken to.

One day my uncle heard me give my Aunt Joyce a very saucy answer (which I had never dared to do had I known he was by). He ordered me at once to beg her pardon, and when transported with passion I refused, he punished me severely, and ordered that I should be kept in penitence till I submitted. I dare say I should have done the same thing in his place, and yet I do not think it was the best way in my own case. I had enough of my family spirit to know how to cherish a grudge. I thought my aunt was wrong in blaming me (as indeed she was, for I am confident I never touched the glass she charged me with breaking); my Corbet blood was roused, and I would not give way. I had my meals by myself for several days, and was not spoken to by any of the family.

There was one person in the house who thoroughly rejoiced in my disgrace, and that was old Madge. She had always been jealous of me, being one of those people to whom it seems necessary if they love one person or thing, to hate some other person or thing in exact proportion. Madge fancied, I believe, that my adoption by my uncle would lessen by just so much the portions of her darlings, Katherine and Avice. They could do nothing wrong in her eyes. We were required to put our rooms and beds to rights. Katherine was apt to be rather careless, more so than myself, but while Madge would always pick up and put away for her, she took care that any little sluttishness of mine should be sure to meet my aunt's eye. Nay, I used to accuse her in mine own mind (and I am not sure now that I was wrong) of purposely putting my affairs out of order that I might get a reproof. However that might be, my faults lost nothing in her hands.

Madge's granddaughter was one of our maids, and a spiteful thing she was, and quite ready to follow her grandmother's lead, so far as I was concerned. She had a bachelor who was a journeyman of my Lord Mayor, and they were to be married in the course of the summer. 'Twas a match rather above her degree, but Betty was a pretty creature, and knew how to ingratiate herself well enough. My aunt had promised her her body and house linen, and also her wedding gown.

It was the day before St. John's eve, whereon the marching watch was to be set forth with greater bravery than usual. I had heard a great deal from my cousins about this splendid show on St. John's eve. The citizens of London were accustomed to set tables before their doors plentifully laden with meats and drinks, whereof all passers-by were invited to partake. The houses were decorated with lamps and cressets, and the doors shadowed with canopies of sweet herbs and all sorts of flowers. Every body was abroad to see the marching watch in their bright harness, with their attendants bearing cressets upon poles, while others carried oil wherewith to feed them. Then there were pageants, morris dancers, and musicians without end. It was, indeed, a goodly and gallant show.

Great heaps of flowers and herbs had been sent in from the farm, and my aunt and cousins, with the maids, were busy weaving garlands. The cook and his assistants were well-nigh driven frantic by the heat and their cares, while Sambo flitted here and there like a magpie, helping every one, and showing his white teeth with endless grins and chuckles. Sambo was my firm friend and took my part on all occasions, which did not help me with Dame Madge. I should have been in the thickest of the plot at any other time, and my assistance was not to be despised, small as I was, but no one asked me to help, and I wandered about, feeling very forlorn and bitter, indeed, and wishing that Mother Benedict would come and carry me away to the convent.

In this mood I went out to the garden, where my own little flower plot lay looking so prim and pretty, and where I had spent so many pleasant hours with my cousins, who were now not allowed to speak with me, though they often gave me looks of compassion. Indeed, Katherine had brought herself into temporary disgrace on my account, by telling Betty before her grandam, that she was a spiteful, tale-bearing pyet, and deserved to be whipped far more than I did.

I walked about the garden, feeling miserable enough, when the thought struck me that I would go and look at my uncle's Indian tree, which was now coming into flower. I knew that two buds had been just ready to burst the night before. Lo! Not two but three or four flowers were fully out. I know not how to describe them, for I never saw any like them before or since. They were round in shape, somewhat like a rose but more regular, with thick, wax-like leaves, and some yellow in the center. I stood, as it were, entranced before them, and at last I stooped down and kissed one of them, but without doing it any harm.

"So, Mistress Loveday!" said Madge's sharp voice behind me. "You are not content with what you have done, but you must needs break and spoil your good uncle's flowers."

I turned and saw Madge and Betty regarding me. I vouchsafed them no reply, but walked away to my own garden, my heart swelling almost to bursting with anger, grief, and wounded pride. Somehow its neatness and brightness seemed to mock me, and, in a fit of rage, I set my foot on a beautiful white lily and crushed it into the earth. The deed was no sooner done than repented. Bursting into tears, I raised the poor plant from the ground. Its once white flower, all broken and smirched with soil, seemed to reproach me with my cruelty. It was ruined beyond hope. I wept over it till I could weep no more, and then, mournfully burying it out of sight, I returned to the house.

That evening, as I was sitting in my own room, trying to divert myself a little with my work, I received a summons to the parlor. There sat my uncle, with the severest face I had ever seen him wear. In his hands he held one of the flowers of the India tree, broken and soiled.

"Loveday, do you know any thing of this?" said he, sternly.

I felt myself change color, but answered firmly: "No, uncle. I saw four flowers on the tree this morning, but I have not seen them since."

"That is not true," said he, more sternly still. "You were seen to pick them, to crush them, and then bury them in the ground in your garden, where this one was found just now."

"I did not do any such thing!" I answered, hotly enough. "I did kiss one of them, because it looked so friendly at me, but I did not hurt it, I know."

My uncle made a sign to Betty, who was standing by. To my utter amazement, she declared that she and her grandmother had just stopped me from destroying the flowers in the morning, and that watching me afterward, from the chamber window, she had seen me carry something to my garden and stamp it into the earth. She had not thought much about it till she heard the flowers were missing, and then looking where she had seen me at work, she found one of the flowers.

What could I say? I could only repeat my denial. I had never hurt the flowers nor touched them, except that I had kissed one of them, as I said.

"And this story you stand to, though Betty saw you with her own eyes trying to spoil the flowers this morning?"

"Yes, I do stand to it!" I answered, driven to desperation by the plot against me, and what seemed the hopelessness of my case. "Betty is a liar and so is Madge, and some time you will find them out."

I think my uncle dared not trust himself to punish me. He knew the infirmity of his own temper. I can feel for him, since I have the same temper myself.

"I cannot have an obstinate liar and rebel in my family!" said he. "Unless you confess and humble yourself, I must send you away."

I saw my aunt whisper something in his ear, but he shook his head, and repeated: "Unless you confess and humble yourself, I must send you away to the convent!"

"You may send me as soon as you please!" I retorted, desperate in my misery and hopelessness, for I could see no way out of my trouble. "I may as well be in one place as another, so long as nobody believes me, or cares about me. I wish I had never come here!"

My aunt put out her hand between me and my uncle, as he started from his seat; but there was no need, for whatever his impulse was, he checked himself in a moment.

"Take this wicked child away, and let her remain by herself till she shall come to a better mind!" said he. "I cannot now trust myself to deal with her."

"You had better read over what you read in your great book the other day about charity!" I retorted, naughty child that I was. "Any how the Holy Virgin and the Saints know that I never touched the flower, and they know who did, too." I saw Betty wince at this. "I will never care for or believe in that book again, for it makes you unkind and wicked."

I did not see the effect of my bold words, for my aunt hurried me away. She took me, not to my own bed-closet, but to a room in the front of the house, next her own, which we children always called the Apostles' room, because it had figures of the apostles wrought on the hangings. Here she left me, turning the key upon me, but presently came back with Sambo carrying a truckle bed, and whatever I needed for the night. My wild anger had subsided into sullen grief by that time, and I never spoke.

I was left alone till supper-time, when Betty came up, bringing me a basin of milk and a slice of brown bread.

"Here is your supper, and a great deal better than you deserve!" said she, in her provoking taunting tone—old fool that I am, the very remembrance makes my blood boil. "Here is a fine end to your airs, forsooth; a country wench to be set up for a lady!"

The words were not out of her mouth before she received a stinging box on each ear from the hands of my aunt, who had followed her in time to hear her words.

"Take that—and that—for thy impudence!" said my aunt, repeating the application. "And let me hear you beg my niece's pardon directly or you leave the house this hour. Country wench, indeed!" And again my aunt's hand emphasized her remarks on Betty's cheek. *

"I beg your pardon, mistress!" sobbed Betty.

"That is well. But why are you here at all? I bade Sambo bring the tray, and where are the manchets I laid upon it."

"Guess dat Betty eat 'em herself!" said Sambo, who stood thoroughly enjoying Betty's disgrace, for they were old enemies. "I just went out to bring Missy Lovely—" that was his version of my name—"a flower from her own bed, and, see here, missy, what I find."

As he spoke, he held up a pair of scissors which we both know to be Betty's.

* Much greater ladies than Mrs. Holland beat their maids till long after this time. See Pepy's diary.

"Where did you find these?" asked my aunt.

"Sticking in the dirt in Missy Lovely garden," answered the negro. "I tell you, Missy Holland, dat gal a deep one."

"Hush, Sambo, you forget yourself!" said my aunt, smiling. "Go down and ask the cook for one of the new baked saffron cakes, and bring it up. As for you, Betty, I shall watch you, and woe be to you if you have spoken falsely, or if I hear you use another impertinent word. Go, now, take your besom and sweep every bit of dust from the summer-house and the paved walks. Finish the work before you leave it, and let me see it done nicely, or I will lay one of the besom twigs about your shoulders."

I don't think my aunt was one bit sorry to have a legitimate cause for falling upon Betty. When we were alone together, she sat down in a great chair, and drawing me to her, spite of my resistance, she prayed me most kindly and gently to tell her the whole truth.

"What is the use, aunt?" I asked, not so much sullenly as hopelessly. "I have told the truth already, and nobody will believe me. You credit Betty, though you know she tells lies, and I have never told a lie since I came into the house. And even if you do, my uncle will not. I thought he was the best man in the world, and now I never can think him good any more!"

"You know, Loveday, no one would have thought of such a thing if you had not been naughty before!" said my aunt, gently. "Have I not always been good to you?"

"Yes, Aunt Joyce."

"And yet, because I gave you a just reproof for carelessness, you answered me pertly, and then refused to make amends, as is every Christian person's duty, whether they be young or old. Was that right?"

"I suppose not!" I answered, softening a little. "But indeed, aunt, I am sure I did not break the glass. I never touched it, and was quite a distance away when I heard it crack."

"Very well, I will take your account of it!" said my aunt, after a little consideration. "But why could you not have said so, as well as to answer me so pertly?"

"I am sorry I was pert!" I answered, softening as soon as I saw that my aunt was disposed to do me justice. "I beg your pardon. But, indeed, indeed, I did not break the Indian tree."

"Tell me all about it!" said my aunt. "How was it?"

I began and went over the whole story—how badly I had felt; how I went to see the Indian tree, and had kissed one of the flowers, because I fancied that it looked kindly at me; how Madge and Betty had accused and taunted me; and how in my rage I broke the white lily.

"But that was very foolish!" said my aunt. "What had the poor lily done?"

"Nothing, aunt! I was sorry the next minute, and I buried it in the ground that I might not see the poor thing any more."

"That was what Betty saw you doing in your garden, then?"

"Yes, aunt; I suppose so."

My aunt mused a little, holding my hand in hers meantime. Then she raised her head and said decidedly:

"Loveday, I am disposed to believe that you are telling the truth. I do not think you hurt the flower, unless you broke it by accident, as you say you kissed it. Are you sure you did not?"

"Yes, aunt; quite sure. Oh, Aunt Joyce, do believe me. I can't live if every one thinks me a liar."

And then I began to cry again. My aunt hushed me and tried to make me eat, but that I could not do. She then undressed me and put me to bed with her blessing. My fierce indignation was all gone by that time, and I began to hope that things would come right after all.

I don't know whether or not my aunt imparted to my uncle her own convictions of my innocence, but if so, she did not succeed in convincing him. I staid in my solitude all day, but I was allowed my embroidery frame, and Sambo—with my aunt's connivance, I imagine—brought his talking popinjay to amuse me. It was a very pretty and entertaining bird, and I beguiled my solitude by teaching it some new words and phrases.

Toward night, however, the scene outside became so gay and animated that I almost forgot my grievances in watching it. As I have said, my uncle's house was built with the upper stories overhanging, and my room had besides a projecting window, so I could see up and down the street for a long way. All the houses had been adorned with garlands of sweet herbs and flowers, and branches of lights which were now being kindled and made a fine show. Before every house of any consequence was set a table with store of meat and drink, which was free to all comers. My uncle's great chair was placed on the pavement, and Sambo stood behind it dressed in his gayest suit. The maids, all in their best, were gathered at an upper window to see the show, and Betty had put herself particularly forward.

But now came the sound of music and the tramp of horses, and every body was on the alert. Presently I saw the head of the procession coming round the corner. First came sundry pageants, morris dancers with bells, and so forth; then men in bright armor, each one with an attendant bearing a light upon a pole. Then came the Mayor and his attendants, on foot and on horseback, all with scarlet jerkins trimmed with gold lace, and posies at their breasts. I knew one of the footmen was Betty's bachelor, and had seen him more than once. As he came abreast of the house, he looked up, and there, fastened in his jerkin, were the missing flowers.

Somebody else had seen them too. As the man saw his mistress looking at him, he put his hand to his cap to salute her, and in so doing, he brushed the flowers from his breast. Before he had time to miss them, Sambo sprang upon them like a black cat upon a mouse, put them in his bosom, and returned to his place, before any one but myself, and I think Betty, saw what he had done. She uttered some sort of exclamation, and retired from the window, and though she presently returned, I don't think she greatly enjoyed the rest of the show, gorgeous as it was.

The procession passed with all its lights and music, its images of giants, and all the rest of the show, and disappeared in the distance. The tables were carried in, the lights extinguished, and I went to bed, feeling greatly comforted by the thought that my innocence was like to be established.

The next morning my dinner was brought me as usual, and it was not till noon that my aunt came and led me down to the parlor. There sat my uncle in his great chair, the withered red flowers on the table before him. Teddy Stillman, Betty's sweetheart—a decent looking whitesmith—stood near, twirling his flat cap in his hands, his honest face cast down with a look of grief and shame. Sambo stood behind his master's chair, like a statue done in ebony, and Betty was crying in a corner. My uncle held out his hand to me and bade me approach.

"Do you see these flowers, niece?"

"Yes, uncle," I answered.

"Do you know where they were found?"

Loveday's history

LOVEDAY'S HISTORY

[CHAPTER I.]

[CHAPTER II.]

[CHAPTER III.]