It was growing toward evening on a mild day of early spring in the year 1527. The sun, which had been hidden all day, peeped out of a rent in the curtain of gray cloud, and did his best to make beautiful the town of Bridgewater, by gilding the tops of the houses and the tall tower of the beautiful church of St. Mary, lighting up the boats and vessels in the river, and sending his rays on all sorts of frolicsome errands through the streets and alleys of the sober old town.

In pursuance of these errands, a set of bright beams found out and entered the shop of John Lucas, the well-known master baker in Bridge Street, and finding therein abundance of well-scoured boards, bright earthenware and burnished pewter, did so disport themselves, that at last they attracted the attention of Master Lucas himself, who was knitting his brows over certain crabbed-looking accounts, apparently trying to extract some meaning from them, by the help of a huge pair of horn spectacles. The moment Master Lucas raised his head, the aforesaid frolicsome beams at once forsook, as it seemed, all their former playthings, to dance about his portly person, light up his gray hair, and make little mimic suns in his eyes and glasses. And certainly they might have gone a long way, and have seen nothing pleasanter than the old man's face.

"Heyday!" he exclaimed. "Here is the sun at last, to be sure, and a welcome sight after all the cloudy days we have had of late. Well, well! The sun always shines at last, that is one comfort. Eh, Mary Brent?" he added, addressing himself to a pale and poorly clad woman who had just entered the shop.

The poor woman shook her head sadly. "I suppose it does, somewhere," said she, "but little of it comes my way of late years."

"And that is true," said the baker kindly. "You have had your troubles and trials these many years; but your children will soon be growing up to help you, that is one comfort; and nobody ever had an ill word for you, that's another. You will be wanting one of my new brown loaves now. Here, Simon, a brown loaf for Dame Brent."

"Not so, Master Lucas," replied Mary Brent. "You are very good, but I dare not take the loaf. I owe you more now than I shall ever be able to pay—"

"Nonsense, woman!" interrupted the baker. "The children must eat."

"And I came to ask you if you would just wait on me a little longer. I hope my son will be home and bring me some money next month; he is a dutiful lad for all they say of him; and till then we must rub on somehow."

"Look here, dame!" said the baker, in a somewhat angry tone. "Have I ever asked you for my money?"

"No, Master Lucas, you have been very forbearing, but—"

"But me no buts!" interrupted Master Lucas. "Take the loaf and go your way, woman, unless you will stop to supper with us; and as for the money, when I want it, I will ask for it."

"I thank you with all my heart," said the woman, evidently relieved from some great anxiety. "My poor children must needs have gone supperless to bed, but for your bounty."

"How then?" demanded the baker. "Did you not get your share of the dole at the convent gate this morning? I saw old Margery carrying home a fine beef-bone, and surely you have as good a right as she—the old mumping beggar that she is!"

"Nay," replied poor Mary, smiling sadly. "I get nothing now from the convent, less or more. The fathers were so angry with poor Davy for preferring rather to go to sea than to become a lay brother, that they say they will do nothing for me. And that is not the worst either. They say my husband was a believer in the new doctrines, and accuse me of the same, though there is no one in Bridgewater who keeps her church more closely than I. New doctrines or not, he was a good husband to me, and never let me want, or lost a day's work through drink or idleness."

"And that is more than many of them can say," returned the baker. "Out on them one and all for a set of lazy crows, preying on other folks' substance!"

"Well, I am surprised to hear you say as much, Master Lucas. I had thought you were ever a favorer of the religious houses. Mistress Cicely told me that your Anne was to enter the convent where she had her schooling, and that she was a wonder for her gravity, her penances, and piety; and also that your son Jacky was likely to follow the same course."

Master Lucas shook his head. "It is by no good will of mine, dame, that Anne turns her thoughts towards the cloister. The girl is well enough, if she would but laugh or speak or do anything else in a natural way, and not go round like a waxen image or an animated corpse. As for Jack, poor fellow, I much fear he will not be long for this world in any vocation. Look at him now coming along the street, so pale and spiritless, never looking above or around him. When I was of his age, I should have raced all the way, and come in as hungry as a wolf. I much fear the lad will die in a waste like his mother before him."

"Why now, Jack, what ails thee?" he continued, as a delicate, pale boy of fifteen came slowly into the shop and dropped his strap-load of books on the counter. "Art thou ill, or have the examinations gone so much against thee? Fie, never take it to heart, lad! Better luck another time. One failure is no such great matter to break one's heart about. Many a man goes well enough through the world who never learned to know great A from little B."

"But I have not failed, dear father," said John, smiling, and, leaning on his father's broad shoulder, he drew from his breast a gold medal, and held it up before him. "See, I have gained the prize!"

"Gained the prize!" exclaimed the baker, starting. "Not the gold medal, and over the heads of all thy fellows! That can never be, surely!"

"But it is even so," replied Jack. "See, here it is. Sir William says in another year I shall be able to go to college."

"Bless the boy! And have you won the prize, and come home to tell of it with such a step as that?"

"I am so tired!" said Jack wearily. "I can think of nothing but resting just now. It seemed ten miles from the schoolhouse to the head of our street."

"And you are as pale as new-bolted flour," said his father. "Sit you down in my great chair. Here, Cicely—Anne—where are you? Bring the lad a glass of ale, Cicely—or, stay, wine be better. A glass of wine, Cicely; and Cicely, bring the smallest of the pies was baked this morning. Here, Anne, my girl, do you see what has happened? Your brother has won the gold medal."

Anne came slowly forward from the back room, where she had been sitting, busily engaged in needle work. She was a tall, fair girl, with regular features, blue eyes, and a face which would have been both handsome and engaging but for its formal, repressed, and self-conscious expression. She looked like one who would never make a natural or spontaneous movement, or speak a word without thinking over all its possible consequences at least twice beforehand. She presented the greatest possible contrast to her jolly, cheerful father, as well as to her maiden cousin Cicely, who now came bustling in, carrying a goodly pasty, which, if it were the smaller of two or three, spoke well for the size of Master Lucas' oven. She was thin and wrinkled as a last year's russet apple, but her somewhat hard features were lighted up with good-humored smiles, and the roses of her youth were well dried into her cheeks.

"Lackaday!" she exclaimed, in a clear, high-pitched voice. "And so our lad has gained the prize. Lady! But who would have thought it, and he so mum and quiet about it all the time! Well, well! Would his dear mother had lived to see the day! But doubtless it is better as it is. What shall I do with the pasty, Master Lucas?"

"Pop it in Mary Brent's basket, to be sure," replied the baker. "What better place could there be? Nay, dame, you must needs take it, or you and I shall fall out. Yourself and the young ones must keep Jack's feast—eh, my lad?"

Mary Brent said no more in opposition, but withdrew with a far brighter face than she came in.

"And that's just like you, Master Lucas, and a good deed too," said Cicely. "Poor woman, I fear she often has short commons at home these days."

"Well, I must say, I wonder my father should give so largely to her—a woman whose husband died without the sacrament, and suspected strongly of heresy," said Anne.

"And suppose her husband was a heretic, is that any reason his widow should starve?" demanded her father with some heat. "Or is there any reason why I should not do what I will with mine own, or why my own daughter should take me to task in the open shop?"

Anne colored deeply. "I meant no offence, father, only—"

"Only thou art a peevish wench, and I am a fool to be ruffled by thee," said the baker, recovering his good humor. "Come, look at Jack's medal."

Anne regarded the medal with a mournful expression, not as if she were at all interested in it, but as obeying a command of her father's. "Tis a great honor, no doubt," said she, "but the honors of this world are hardly worth striving after."

"By'r Lady! But they are," said her father. "Another such victory makes Jack an Oxford scholar, and that is worth striving after in more ways than one. But thou art ever a wet blanket," he muttered between his teeth, "taking no pleasure thyself, and doing all thou canst to damp that of other people. Come, son, drink your wine and eat this manchet therewith, to stay your appetite till supper. And do you, Cicely, provide us with right good cheer this night, and send the 'prentice boy to bid my old crony, Master Luttrell, and his wife, to sup with us. They will be glad to hear of Jack's good fortune—eh, my lad? But you look worse and worse. Cicely, bring some of the cordial I got from Captain Davis."

"I should like to go to bed, father, if you please," interrupted Jack, trying to rouse himself. "My head is so heavy and drowsy, I shall be no good company for anybody. I dare say I shall feel better after a good night's rest."

"To be sure, dear lad. Sleep is everything—worth all the doctors in the world. Anne, get your brother's room ready, and make his bed comfortably. Yes, go to bed, my son, and sleep well, with thy father's blessing upon thee," added Master Lucas, laying his broad hand on the boy's head, while an expression of gentle benignity made his honest, open face still more attractive. "This I will say for thee, that from the day of thy birth till now thou hast never wittingly grieved thy father's heart, or given him a moment's uneasiness."

Jack took his father's hand in his own thin fingers and kissed it. "I should be a wretch indeed, to grieve you, father. You have been father and mother both to me ever since my mother died. I only wish I could do more for you in return."

"Tut, tut, lad! What could any one expect of you more than you have done? Only get well and strong, and never fear but you will do enough. Anne, why do you not see to the lad's chamber, instead of standing there like an image of stone?"

"It is nearly time for evensong, father," replied Anne. "Betty can make Jack's bed as well as I."

"Tell me not of evensong, girl! It is quite time you should learn that your father's word is not to be disputed. Go and do as I bid you, or it will be the worse for you. There, I meant not to be over-sharp, Anne, but you must learn, my maid, that so long as you are under your father's roof, his word is your law."

"Dear father, do not be sharp with poor Anne," pleaded Jack, when his sister had left the room. "She means no harm, poor girl, only they have taught her at the convent to think nothing is of any account in comparison with church observances; and they are right, for aught I know, if it is as the priests tell us."

"It was an evil day when I let her go to the convent at all," said the baker. "She has never been the same joyous girl since. And now, I warrant, you too will be thinking of the church—mayhap of the cloister—and I shall be left alone, a childless old man."

"Never, never, dear father!" exclaimed Jack, starting up and speaking with an energy which brought a flush to his pale cheeks. "Never will I leave you for the sake of becoming a lazy drone, like the monks yonder, or a proud priest like their prior, who rides abroad in such state upon his mule, and grinds the faces of poor men, and robs widows and orphans as he does. I would rather be a shepherd on the hillside all day like my old uncle Thomas, or a sailor like Davy Brent, or a miner underground, than live such a life!"

"Well, well, boy, I am glad on't with all my heart, but you need not speak so loud or put yourself in such a heat about it. The priests are not all alike neither. Never was a better man than our Sir William."

"That is so, father; and yet I would not be in his shoes. I hear the others are complaining that he preaches too much, and that he sets a bad example in not exacting all his dues. They say he would not take the last dues from Prudence Wither when her husband died, though she offered it. 'Nay, dame,' he said, 'it were more fitting I should give to you than you to me.' And he will take no christening gifts or marriage fees, because he says the sacraments should be free to all."

"'Tis a wonder if they do not accuse him of heresy before all is done!" muttered the baker.

"Well, here comes cousin Cicely to tell us that your room is ready, and I dare say she has brewed a fine posset for you—eh, old girl?"

"That have I, that have I, John Lucas!" replied the cheery old woman. "And made up his bed with clean well-lavendered sheets to boot. So come along, Jacky, if you will not sit up to supper—and truly your eyes are rarely heavy."

"You will spoil me among you," said Jack, gratefully. "I am not worth so much care. Well, good-night, dear father. I dare say I shall be well enough in the morning."

[CHAPTER II.]

THE SHEPHERD.

Jack's prophecy was not destined to be fulfilled. For many days, he tossed restlessly on his bed, or crept from it only to recline in the great armchair which had been placed in his room.

In vain did Cicely prepare her most tempting delicacies, and brew her choicest sleeping draughts—he could neither eat nor sleep. In vain did Anne, more awake to sublunary matters than she had been for a long time, try to divert him with legends of saints. He could not care for them any more than for the news of the school and the town which his playmates brought him.

He grew thinner and weaker day by day. The physician talked learnedly of degeneration of the animal spirits, and so on, but confessed that he could do no good. He feared there was a hereditary tendency to consumption, which nothing would counteract, and being a wise and humane man, he forbore to torment his patient with useless drugs.

One day, Sir William Leavett, the parish priest, came in to see him. Jack had been rather better for a day or two, and had managed, with his father's help, to creep down into the sunny shop, where he sat or rather reclined in his father's armchair, pleased with the change from his dull chamber and languidly amused by the bustle in the street and the people coming and going; for it was a market-day, and Bridge Street was unusually thronged.

"Why, this is well, my son," said the priest, kindly. "I am glad to see you down-stairs. Nay, sit still," he added, as Jack would have risen from his seat. "I will take the will for the deed."

So saying, he drew up a stool and sat down by the side of the sick boy. He was a kindly-looking middle-aged man, with iron-gray hair, and a face full of benevolence, but sad and somewhat puzzled in its expression. He took Jack's hand, felt its pulse, and questioned him as to his feelings.

"You have no pain, you say?"

"No father, at least very little," replied Jack. "I seem to be tired all the time. If I could only be rested, I should feel well."

"You are overwrought, my son. You worked too hard for the medal, I fear."

"I did not know how hard I was working, not till afterwards," said Jack. "No one was more surprised at my getting it than I was. I never thought it possible."

"So much the better, so much the better, my son!" said the priest. "You worked for the learning, which was its own reward, and which will last you, it may be, when this same bit of gold is rust and dust."

"Shall we then carry our learning with us into other world?" asked Jack, abruptly.

The priest smiled. "Who can tell that, my on? Yet it may be so. That which we truly earn becomes, as it were, amalgamated with our minds and a part of them, even as the food we eat becomes a part of our bodies. Have you not found it so?"

"Indeed I have, father," said Jack. "I cannot forget, if I would."

"Well, then, since our minds and souls are immortal, why should not this same learning, which has become a part of them, be immortal too? But these are deep themes, far beyond the reach of us mortals. This much I think we may rest assured of, that we shall forget nothing which it is profitable for us to remember. Master Lucas, good-day to you," as the baker entered the shop. "I am glad to see our young scholar better and able to be down-stairs."

"He is not much to boast of yet, poor child!" replied Master Lucas sadly. "I would give all his school learning to see his cheeks as round and rosy as yonder shepherd lad's. Nothing can make up for the want of health."

"Ay, ay!" said the priest musingly, looking over Jack's head into the street. "And speaking of shepherds, Master Lucas, why do you not send this lad out into the fields to try what country air and country fare can do for him? They work wonders sometimes. Has he no relations or friends to whose care you could commit him for the summer?"

"I have been thinking of that same thing, Sir William," replied the baker; "but where to send him I know not, unless it be to his mother's uncle, old Tommy Sprat at Holford. He is a good man, though plain and somewhat austere perhaps in his manners, and wonderful sparing of his words in general, as I think indeed shepherds are apt to be."

"Ay, their occupation, by its silence and solitariness, doth naturally dispose them, if they be at all men of parts or understanding, to contemplation and musing. Hence, perhaps, the favor shown them of old in making known to shepherds the first news of the Birth at Bethlehem. David, too, the great king and sweet singer of Israel, was a shepherd."

"Was he really?" asked Jack, much interested, "that King David who made the Psalms?"

The priest assented.

"And was he the same you told us of in school one day, the young lad who killed with his sling and stone the fierce giant who defied the king's armies so long?"

"Even so, my son," answered the priest, smiling at the boy's eager interest. "King David was for many years a shepherd lad, and wandered over the hills and plains with his father's flocks and herds, even that same David who wrote:"

"'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.'"

"Our Lord, too, is called the shepherd of His people."

"'I am the good shepherd, the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep.'"
"'My sheep hear my voice, and they follow me, and none is able to pluck them out of my hand.'"
"'He shall feed flock like a shepherd, He shall carry the lambs in His bosom.'"

The priest seemed to have forgotten where he was, as he repeated these words, and then became silent, looking out of the window with a rapt and joyful expression, as if he saw more than met the eyes of others.

Jack and his father exchanged awe-struck glances, but did not venture to speak.

It was whispered among his flock, that the pure and saintly life of William Leavett had not been unrewarded even in this world, that he had more than once been favored with visions of heavenly things, and that angels had visited his dreams.

"I crave your pardon, Master Lucas. I fear I am unmannerly," said the priest, at last, coming out of his abstraction, with a sweet smile. "I am somewhat absent-minded, you know, and I think that the infirmity increases upon me with years. My advice, Master Lucas, if I may venture to give it unasked, is, that you send our scholar here, to keep sheep with this uncle of his in the country, and see if the June air which blows over the hills will not bring the color to his cheek and the light to his eyes."

"I believe your reverence is right, and I will set about the matter this very day," said Master Lucas. "I dare say Uncle Thomas will be in town, as it is a fair day, and very likely he may look in upon us. And in good time, here he comes!" he added, as a rustic-looking man presented himself at the shop door. "Come in, come in, uncle! The sight of you is good for sore eyes, as the saying goes. Craving your reverence's pardon," he added, in a lower voice, "if you would but stop and sup with us, the old man is good company, and Cicely has a fine pair of fowls."

"I would gladly do so," replied the priest, smiling and inclining his head in answer to the shepherd's greeting; "but I have promised to go and see Mary Brent, and only looked in on my way thither. The poor woman has had a bad fall, and I fear it may be a long time before she walks again."

"Poor soul! Poor dear soul! And she with all those children. Cicely must go see her, and I will send the lad down with bread and meat for their suppers. I trust your reverence to let me know if aught else is wanted. You know I esteem it a favor when you call on me."

"Ay, truly, 'tis a favor I do not spare you, Master Lucas," and bestowing his blessing upon the company, he left the shop.

"There is a priest now, worth bowing to!" said the baker. "A true shepherd, and no hireling fleecing the poor sheep to the very bones, ay, eating their flesh and drinking their blood to supply his own greed and luxury. If there were more like him, we should not hear such complaints of the decay of religion, and the spread of heresy. No man was ever the worse for him, nor woman either, and he hath ever a kind word and a blessing for the poorest and youngest, as well as for the rich and great."

"Yet I hear he is no favorite with his brethren," said Jack.

"Ay, that is because they are rebuked by his poverty and his industry. But come in, come in, Uncle Thomas; I have matters of importance about which to consult you, after supper, that is. We will not talk of business, fasting. Sit you down and talk with Jack, while I draw the ale and see to the mulling of the wine."

The shepherd was an old man, somewhat bent with years and rheumatism, but still tall and stately, with white hair and beard, clear, somewhat dreamy blue eyes, and a firm and kindly mouth.

Jack felt attracted toward him directly, and was delighted to hear him consent at once to the proposed arrangement.

"My house is but a plain place, and my fare coarse and homely compared to yours, Master Lucas; but I can give the lad good beef, bread and milk, and mayhap the change itself will be well for him. My housekeeper, Margery, though somewhat of the deafest, is yet clean and a good cook, and I will care for Jack as if he were my own. More I cannot say."

"And more need not be said," answered the baker heartily. "I know you well, Thomas Sprat, for an honest, godly, and kind-hearted man, and I shall feel as easy about my lad as if he were in his own chamber. So then we will consider the matter settled, eh, Jack? And thou shalt learn to keep sheep, like the king the good priest was telling us of, he that wrote the Psalms—what a head I have, to be sure!"

"King David," said Jack. "But there will be no giants to fight at Holford, I am afraid."

"There are giants to fight everywhere, dear lad," said the shepherd, "yes, and dwarfs, too, worse than the giants."

"Dwarfs and giants in Holford! What does the man mean?" said the baker. "Oh, I see—this will be some of your parables!" he added, with a jolly laugh. "I am but a plain man, and don't understand such matters. You and Jack will suit exactly, I dare say. Well, then, it is settled, and as soon as the lad is able to ride so far I will bring him out to you."

"There is one thing for which I should like to be a priest," said Jack the next day.

He was lying at length on the settle in the sitting-room, and Anne sat sewing at the window.

"Only one?" said Anne.

"Only one that I know of now. I should like to be a priest, that I might read the Bible. Did you ever see a Bible in the convent, Anne?"

"No, never," replied his sister. "I dare say there might be one in the library, for they had great store of books both written and printed; but no one ever meddled with them, except that the librarian used to take them out and dust and air them once or twice a year."

"But what did you do?" asked Jack. "You must have had a great plenty of time."

"Not so much as you think. There were the daily services, and the hours of silence, and the embroidery, and the making of sweetmeats and comfits for sale and for feast-days, and other things besides. There was very little time for reading."

"But you had reading at meals," persisted Jack. "What did they read to you?"

"Homilies, and lives of the saints, and such like," replied Anne.

"And were not some of those taken from the Bible?"

"How should I know, when, as I told you, I never saw a Bible?" asked Anne, in a tone of some little irritation. "The Bible is not for common folks and laymen like you and me. Father Barnabas said it was by reading the Bible in the vulgar tongue that the rebellion was got up long ago in the days of Lord Cobham and the Lollards."

"That is curious, though," said Jack, meditatively.

"What is curious?"

"That reading the Bible should make men rebels and traitors. The priests say—at least Father William says—that the Bible is the Word of God to men, given them for their salvation; and I cannot see how reading and knowing the word of God should make men wicked."

"I'll tell you what, Jack, you are getting into a bad way, and meddling with things which don't concern you," said Anne, laying down her work. "Sister Alice asked some such questions of one of the elder nuns, and a fine penance she got for it. She had to kneel on the stone floor of the church all one winter's night."

"That must have done a great deal toward convincing her of her errors," said Jack, dryly; "though I should say it was more likely to give her the rheumatism."

"She had no business to need convincing," replied Anne; "that was what Father Barnabas said. Her duty was to submit to her spiritual superiors. I suppose the Bible is like medicine. Medicine is good to take when the doctor gives it to us, but if we should go to taking drugs at our own fancy, without knowing their qualities and uses, we should soon poison ourselves."

Anne delivered this illustration, which, indeed, was part of one of Father Barnabas' sermons, with a tone of authority which silenced Jack for a time. But he was not one quickly to let drop an idea which had taken firm hold of his mind, and later in the day he began again, upon another branch of the same great subject, which was indeed occupying many more minds than that of the baker's lad.

"Anne, did not somebody say that Mary Brent's husband was infected with the new doctrines?"

"Yes," said Anne. "So much the worse for him!"

"Why?" asked Jack.

"Because he died a wretched heretic without the sacraments, and was buried like a dog—as he deserved," replied Anne, bitterly. "Well for him that he fared no worse, as he would have done had Father Barnabas been the parish priest instead of Sir William Leavett."

"But Mary says her husband was a kind husband and a good man, and never let her want for anything," persisted Jack. "I wonder where he learned these new doctrines?"

"Among the sailors and merchants in Germany and the Low Countries, as I have heard," said Anne. "From the monster Luther himself, for ought I know."

"Did Luther believe in allowing people to read the Bible?" asked Jack.

Anne put down her work, and coming to the side of Jack's bed, she kneeled down and put her arm round him.

"Dear Jack, what has got into you?" she asked. "Who has been putting these notions into your head?"

"What notions?" asked Jack.

"These notions about reading the Bible, and this curiosity about heretics and about the new doctrines. Oh, brother dear, don't meddle with poison! Don't touch pitch lest you be defiled! Think of your immortal soul—of your friends and your father. Be warned in time—" Anne laid down her head on the bed, and her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs.

"Dear Anne, don't cry so!" said Jack, wondering at his sister's emotion. "What have I done to make you so unhappy? I have no notion of running after the new doctrines, and even if I did wish to read the Scriptures, why should that trouble you?"

"Because—because I know what comes of it!" said Anne, lifting her colorless face, and speaking in a low tone. "Jack, I had a friend in the convent—the dearest friend I ever had. She was one of the young sisters, and taught me to embroider and to write, and though she was of good family, and I but a baker's daughter, she took a liking for me, and I loved her with my whole heart."

"Well!" said Jack, breathlessly, as Anne paused, for there was something in his sister's tone which awed him.

"She went home for a few weeks," continued Anne. "When she came back she brought with her a certain book. It professed to be part of the Holy Scripture—Heaven knows what it was—but Agnes read in it every spare moment. She would have had me study the book with her, and I did read a few chapters. Then I grew frightened and would read no more, and I begged Agnes to burn the book, but she would not—ah, woe is me! She would not."

"Well!" said Jack again, as Anne made another pause.

"The poison entered into her soul," continued Anne, speaking in a still lower tone, and shivering as with horror. "She became infected, and she spoke profane and slighting words of the saints, and of our Lady herself, even declaring that there was no warrant in Scripture for asking her intercession. More she spoke that I cannot repeat—that I dare not think of. Oh, would that she had never spoken to me of the matter! Would it had not been my lot—"

"Anne, you did not betray her!" cried Jack indignantly. "You did not betray your friend?"

"What could I do?" murmured Anne, her face once more hidden. "I must needs go to confession, and answer the questions which were asked of me. I was her confidant, and the priest knew that, and questioned me shrewdly. I was obliged to tell, and—oh, woe is me! Woe is me! Why was I ever born? She was called before the prioress and the priest, all the sisters standing by, and there she avowed her heresy, and spoke out boldly. She was a modest, shamefaced girl in general, but she was fearless enough then. Never, never shall I forget her face and her voice. They dragged her away at last, and as she was going, I fell at her feet—I could not help it—and implored her forgiveness."

"She looked down upon me with her sweet eyes full of tears. 'I forgive you, Anne, if there is aught to forgive,' said she. 'You could not help yourself, I suppose. These are the days spoken of by our Lord, when the brother shall betray the brother to death; but whosoever shall endure to the end shall be saved. Pray for me, dear Anne, as I shall for thee.'"

"Then they drew me away with bitter words of reproach, and I knew no more till I found myself in my cell, with kind old Mother Paula watching over me."

"And what became of Agnes?" asked Jack.

Anne shivered again. "That I never knew. I did venture to ask once of Mother Paula, but she only crossed herself and shook her head. She may yet be alive in some lonely cell, or her bones may be mouldering in the vault below the convent. I dare not ask or think."

"What did they say to you?" asked Jack.

"Father Barnabas was very hard upon me, and gave me many severe penances. I know not what might have been done, had the prioress not stood my friend. But she was a tender-hearted lady; more than that, she was a daughter of my lord, and a person of weight and authority, so she had her own way. She sent me home at last for a change, as she said, that I might recover my health and see somewhat of the world before taking the veil."

"Now, Jack, you know what nobody else knows outside the convent wall. You know why my life is one long prayer and penance. I would I could make it more so than it is. I would have gone a pilgrimage on foot—ay, on my knees to the Holy City, had not my father forbidden, if so might win forgiveness for myself and my friend. I would sleep in my grave every night—I do lie on ashes upon hard boards—I would perform the vilest offices for the poor or the sick; but when think of what Father Barnabas said—that he feared lest the lowest depths of purgatory should be too good for such as she—" Again Anne bowed her head and wept bitterly.

Jack would have given the world to comfort his sister, but he knew not what to say. He saw no comfort himself. He had been brought up to think heresy the worst of sins, beyond even the purifying fires of purgatory. Yet as he heard Anne's tale, and thought of the fair Agnes Harland betrayed by her friend, however innocently, perhaps to a horrible death, perhaps to a living grave worse than any death. As he saw, and understood at a glance, the whole explanation of Anne's conduct—her prayers and tears, and the penances which were wearing out her young life—his whole heart and mind rose in furious rebellion against the faith in which he had grown up. His soul demanded freedom from this intolerable yoke, while at the same time he saw no way of escape.

He turned, and groaned in anguish.

"I have done wrong to tell you this story," said Anne, recalled to some degree of calmness by her brother's agitation. "I have worried and excited you; but oh, dear Jack, if you will only take warning!"

"I am not likely to need the warning," said Jack, with a faint smile, "since I know not how or where I am like to get a sight of the Bible; unless, indeed, I become a priest, and that," said Jack, with sudden vehemence, "I will never do. I will rather keep sheep all my days, or go for a ship's boy, like Davy Brent."

"Hush!" said Anne, imperatively but yet kindly. "You must be quiet, dear Jack, or you will be worse, and my father will blame me. I am glad, in one way, to have told you this tale. I seem to have relieved my mind of a little of its intolerable load. But, dear brother, you must never breathe a word of what I have said, or you will bring me into terrible trouble."

"I never will—never," replied Jack, throwing his arms round his sister's neck and kissing her. "I am glad you have told me this tale, sad and horrible as it is, because it makes me understand many things which have troubled me and puzzled me. But oh! Anne, it does seem to me as if there must be some other way—some way of escape."

Anne held up her hand to check him. "Not a word of that. Let us say no more."

And, Dame Cicely coming in at the moment, Anne made her escape to her own room.

When Jack saw her again she was pale and calm, and seemed to have once more put on the icy mask of reserve which she had worn so long. But Jack had seen behind that mask, and had found out what it covered. Henceforth he was always ready to take Anne's part, to shield her from remark and blame, and to divert his father's attention when the old man, jovial spirit was vexed with his daughter's asceticism, and he was ready to break out into one those windy gusts of reproof which only made matters worse between the father and child. He would gladly have questioned Anne as to what she had read in Agnes Harland's book, but the only time he ventured to approach the subject with her, she showed so much distress and horror that he determined never to allude to it again.

[CHAPTER III.]

THE SHEPHERD'S TALE.

"Uncle Thomas," said Jack, "did you ever see a Bible?"

Jack Lucas was lying on the short, elastic grass on the side of Holford Hill, helping his great-uncle, Thomas Sprat, to watch the large flocks of Sir John Brydges, the greatest man in these parts. Four or five weeks of country air and country faire had done much to restore the roses to his cheeks and the strength to his muscles. He began once more to feel that life was worth having for the mere sake of living; to feel a keen enjoyment in climbing the steep hills, in following the sheep in their devious wanderings over the unenclosed pastures, and recalling to a sense of its duty any one of them which showed a disposition to stray too far.

The brown bread and milk, the boiled beef and greens, and ale, which deaf Margery set before him, had a flavor which he had not found for many months in the dainty cookery of his cousin Cicely. In those days the English peasants knew little, in ordinarily good seasons, of scarcity of food. Foreign travellers record their wonder and admiration at the "great shins of beef," the quantities of bread and animal food, consumed by the English yeomen and cottagers, and much of their superiority in battle was supposed to be owing to this circumstance.

Jack and his uncle suited each other very well. The old man was rather sparing of his words, but he was a pleased and indulgent listener to the boy's prattle, and when he did speak, it was always to the purpose. Sometimes in the evening, or when they were alone on the hillside, Jack would catechise the shepherd, and draw from him accounts of what he had seen in his younger days.

For the old man had not always been a shepherd on the hillside. He had followed his master to foreign wars, and helped to uphold the honor of England on more than one stricken field. He might have ended his days in peace and idleness in the knight's hall corner, for Sir John was a liberal and worthy man, and honored the old retainer of his father; but Thomas had no fancy for an idle life. He was hale and strong, and quite able to perform the duties of a shepherd, and he preferred living in the old cottage where his father and grandfather had lived before him.

Sir John was not one of those who insist on doing people good against their will or exactly in his own way and no other. He was content to let the old man please himself. Thus it came to pass that Thomas Sprat, had a home of his own to share with his great-nephew; and, as I have said, he made it very pleasant for the lad.

Anne's tale had produced a very different effect upon her brother's mind from what she had intended. Instead of putting an end to his curiosity and his mental questionings, she had given them a new impulse. Again and again, he went over in his mind the story of Agnes Harland. He recalled the words she had spoken, the account which Anne had given of the girl's constancy and bravery under trial, and wondered if it was anything in the words of the mysterious book which had given her so much courage, and whether that book was really a copy of the Holy Scripture.

And why should her superiors have been so angry with Agnes for reading the book, supposing it to be the Bible? Was it true that the word of God was so dangerous? Was it indeed like a poisonous drug, only to be touched by a skilful physician, and even then with caution? Or—Jack put away the thought with horror, but it returned again and again—was it true that the monks knew themselves condemned by its pages; that their pretensions to absolute authority over the mind and conscience of men had no ground or support in Holy Writ, and, therefore, they were afraid to put the book into the hands of the people? And, if this were true, how much more was true? What if Luther and the German heretics were right after all?

Jack's mind was like a seething caldron with these and similar thoughts and conjectures, and had been so, ever since he had heard the tale of Agnes Harland. He had never dared heretofore to mention the subject, and he hardly knew how he had ventured to begin upon it now. But there had already sprung up a very warm and intimate friendship between the old man of fourscore, grave, silent, and somewhat severe in his manners, and the fresh-hearted impulsive schoolboy, with his head full of the classical learning he had acquired at school, and the tales he had heard from his father and Cousin Cicely.

Deaf Margery remarked with some little jealousy, that Master Thomas said more words to Jacky in one day than he had done to her in a month; forgetting, poor woman, that Master Thomas might as well have tried to keep up a conversation with one of his own sheep.

Thomas himself was conscious of a new flavor, as it were, given to his quiet life by the advent of his young kinsman, which repaid him tenfold for any trouble he had taken in the matter.

On this particular day, Jack and his uncle were alone on the breezy side of Holford Hill, looking over a beautiful prospect of meadow, waste and woodland. The old man sat on a flat stone, leaning back against a great stunted oak tree which grew very conveniently just behind this his favorite seat, and, with his hands folded before him, seemed lost in meditation. Jack lay at full length on the thymy and springing turf, gazing up into the blue sky, and watching now the rooks, now the great sailing white clouds which passed over it. Suddenly he spoke out:

"Uncle Thomas, did you ever see a Bible?"

"Uncle Thomas, did you ever see a Bible?"

The old man started and turned round with a look of surprise, somewhat as if his own thoughts had found an echo in the boy's words.

"A Bible, lad! And what set thee to thinking of a Bible?"

"Oh, I don't know exactly. I should so like to see one. There must be such fine tales in the Bible," replied Jack, feeling his way, as it were. "Tales of St. George and St. Patrick and such like."

The old man smiled and shook his head shrewdly. "I am not so sure of that, my son. I never saw or heard any such. I doubt whether St. George and St. Patrick are in the Bible at all, though they may be there for all that."

It was now Jack's turn to start. "Then you have seen a Bible!" he said, raising himself on his elbow and looking earnestly at the shepherd. And as Thomas did not answer, he repeated again, "Then you have really seen a Bible?"

"Ay, lad," replied the shepherd. "I have both seen a Bible, and held it in my hands, and read it too."

"But where? But how?" asked Jack.

"Raise yourself up and look about you," said the old man. "Do you see any one near?"

Jack started to his feet and gazed around him in every direction. "I see nobody," he said at last, "nobody but the falconer from the Hall, exercising his hawks in the waste half a mile away, and old Margery bringing water from the Lady-well. Nobody can come upon us here without being seen."

"Sit down here by me, then, and I will tell you the tale. I cannot think it will harm you. I had thought to carry the secret to my grave, since I have no son to whom I may leave it. But I have learned to love you as my own son, and all I have will be yours when I am gone. It will not be much; only the old cottage, and what little gold I have saved; but, if you have the cottage, you must have the secret of the cottage as well. So sit you down, and you will, and hear the old man's tale."

Jack obeyed, and prepared to listen with breathless attention. The old man once more glanced warily round him, and then began his narration.

"You asked me, dear boy, if I had ever seen a Bible. Yes, I have both seen and handled the Word of God in the vulgar tongue. It was not a printed book such as we have now; it was written by hand on parchment, and bound in leather with heavy iron clasps, like the enchanter's book in your legend of Merlin. But it was no enchanter's book. It was the real, true, living Word of God, done into English by good Master Wickliffe of Lutterworth."

"It happened first in this wise. I was a young boy of nine or ten years old, and sharp for my age as any lad in these parts. I had learned to read from my father, who was a substantial yeoman, and could both read and write. But there was little to read in those days, only a ballad now and then or some such folly, which my father did not greatly favor."

"About this time, I began to notice that though I was always sent to bed with the chickens, yet my father and mother and my elder brother, a boy of sixteen or thereabouts, sat up much later. I used to lie awake and listen after a while, and I could hear a low murmur of voices, as though some one were reading aloud. I dared not ask any questions, for I stood much in awe of my father and mother, more than is the fashion in these days," added the old man with a sigh.

"Well!" said Jack, fearful lest the shepherd should fall to moralizing on the degeneracy of the times, an exercise of mind as common then as now and quite as reasonable.

"Well," said the shepherd, "as I told you, I listened thus for several nights, now and then catching a word which roused my curiosity still more, till at last I could bear it no longer. One night (it was Easter-even of all the nights in the year), I rose softly from my bed, and putting on my clothes, I slipped carefully down the stairs, till I could peep through the door at the bottom. There sat my father and mother, surrounded by three or four neighbors. You have seen the little footstool which always stands by my great chair in the chimney corner?"

"Yes," replied Jack, wondering what the stool could have to do with the matter.

"My father had this stool turned upside down on his lap, and upon it lay a great book from which he was reading in low, reverent tones, the story of the raising of Lazarus from the dead. I noticed in one glance, as children do notice everything, that the door was barred and the window carefully darkened so that no gleam of light should appear without, and also that my brother seemed to be on the watch. I stood still in my hiding-place and listened to that wonderful tale, not losing one word, till my father came to that place where he that was dead came forth bound hand and foot with grave-clothes. Then I could no longer bear the excitement, and I cried out aloud. In another moment, my mother had drawn me out of my hiding-place, and I stood in the midst of the company."

"I was terribly frightened. I thought when I saw my father's grave face that I had done something dreadful; and I fell down on my knees at his feet and prayed him to pardon me. I shall never forget his look and tone as he raised me and placed me between his knees. It was seventy years ago and more, yet I seem to see and hear him now as he kissed me—a rare thing for him to do—and said to me—"

"'My dear son, I am not angry with you. You have unwittingly intruded into a great and dangerous secret, a secret which concerns men's lives, and you must now show that you are able to keep it.'"

"I was none the less frightened for this address. My head was as full of tales of enchantment as ever yours was, and I could think of nothing but that my father and his friends were engaged in some unlawful art, and I glanced fearfully around me, expecting to see I knew not what frightful appearance. My father seemed to perceive that I was frightened, for he passed his arm round me and bade me not be afraid."

"'This book,' said he, laying his hand on the volume, 'this book, my son, is no other than the Word of God, done into English by that good priest, Master Wickliffe of Lutterworth, in the days of my father, thy grandfather, for whom thou art named. My father held this book as his most precious treasure, albeit he suffered both persecution and loss of goods for its sake; and when he died, he bequeathed it to me. If I were known to possess it, the book would be taken and destroyed, and not only thy father and mother, but these neighbors, might be burned at the stake. So you see, my child, into what a perilous secret you have intruded yourself.'"

"'But, father,' I ventured to ask timidly, 'are you sure that this is really and truly the Word of God?'"

"'Yes, my son,' he replied, 'I am well assured of it.'"

"'How then?' I asked. 'I thought that only heretics were burned, and how should a man be accounted a heretic for reading the Word, of God?'"

"My father and his friends smiled, and one of them said, 'Truly, my dear lad, that is a question which has been asked by older heads than yours.'"

"'Tis indeed a grave question, and I will strive to explain the matter to you another day. Meantime, my son, attend to me. As I tell you, the lives of your father and mother depend upon your discretion. If you speak of what you have found out to any one, you may expect to see us burned alive at the stake. Do you know what that means?'"

"I did know, only too well. Only a year before, I had played the truant to see some great sight, I knew not what, which had drawn together a crowd of people over there on the border of the waste. I had slipped between them till I reached the front rank, and I had never forgotten the sight which met my eyes—the body of an aged woman consuming in the flames. The sight and the smell had haunted my dreams at times ever since."

"'I never will betray you, dear father; never,' I cried passionately. 'I will never breathe one word, if only you will let me hear God's Word.'"

"From that time, I was a regular attendant at the evening readings, nor would I have missed them for any reward which could have been promised me. My mother could repeat whole chapters of the Scripture, especially of the New Testament, and she caused me to learn them also; for she said—"

"'You may not always have the book. It may be destroyed, or you may have to leave home, but what is stored in your memory no man can take from you.'"

"Accordingly, she caused me to learn by heart large part of the sayings of our Lord, with the account of his miracles."

"Did our Lord work miracles like the holy image at Glastonbury, or like those we read of in the lives of the saints?" asked Jack. "Was he seen gliding along over the treetops, or kneeling a little way up in the air at his devotions, like St. Catherine; or did he live a whole week on five orange seeds, like St. Rose; or—"

"Nay, our Lord's miracles were very different from most of those related in the lives of the saints," replied the shepherd. "They were mostly performed to heal the sick, or to help those who were in some strait for want of food, or the like. But at last, the time came when I must go forth to seek my own living. My father was not rich, and had suffered, like almost every one else, by the long civil wars. So I was sent to keep sheep on the Stonehill farm, across the waste yonder, and quite on the other side of the parish. I did not come home for a year, and then it was upon a mournful occasion. My father had been arrested and thrown into jail for a heretic, and though my good master, Sir John Brydges, interceded for him, he could not save him. My brother was obliged to flee for his life, and what became of him I cannot say. I never saw or heard of him again."

"I was permitted to see my father and receive his blessing, but only in presence of witnesses. His enemies would gladly have pushed matters to extremity, and have turned my mother and me out into the world to wander as beggars, if indeed they had left us that resource, but again Sir John stood our friend. May God bless him for it, and give him his portion among the saints! He was a man of weight and power, and he used his power well. The cottage where my father and grandfather lived was assured to my mother for her life, and I was taken into the good knight's service, he thinking, I suppose, that I should be safer attending upon him."

"I followed his fortunes faithfully for more than forty years, and I supported his head when he died. His son, the present knight, has ever been kind to me. He would have given me a home in his own hall had I desired it, but I was ever a lover of solitude, and found more pleasure in following the sheep on the hillside than in sitting among the servants in the great hall. Besides, I have always cherished a secret hope that I might find my father's great book hidden somewhere about the old cottage."

"Then it was not destroyed?" said Jack.

"Not that I know of. It was never found. My father, fearing for its safety, had bestowed it in some new hiding-place the day that he was arrested, and he had no time to tell my mother where he had placed it."

"Then it may be in being now," said Jack. "Oh, uncle, if we could but find it!"

"Would to God I might!" replied the old man, looking upward and clasping his hands. "I would depart in peace, could I but once more hold the Word of God in my hands. And, son Jack—for dear you are to me as my own son—I know not if it may not be a fond fancy, but by times something tells me that I shall see it again before I die."

[CHAPTER IV.]

SEED BY THE WAYSIDE.

From this day forward Jack had a new interest and a new object in life—to find the old Bible. Day by day, he explored every possible hiding-place, turning things upside down in all directions, and rummaging, old Margery declared, worse than a rat or than the goblin which haunted her father's barn. Over and over again, did he take the false bottom out of the little footstool, where the book had once been concealed, and gaze into the empty space, as if he thought he might somehow have overlooked the cumbrous volume, and might perhaps find it by more careful search.

The book haunted his very slumbers. Often did he dream of finding it, and once the dream was so vivid, that he went before sunrise to the little dell where he had seemed to discover it under a flat stone. But, alas! There was no such stone to be seen, and he came sadly back a little ashamed of his own credulity, and having gained nothing but a prodigious appetite for his breakfast.

Jack had but one consolation, and that indeed was a great one. He made the shepherd repeat to him all that he could remember of Holy Scripture. The old man's memory, though somewhat impaired as to late occurrences, was as vivid as ever for all those things which had happened in his youth, and he was able to repeat whole chapters of Wickliffe's version of the Bible, which, rude and imperfect as it was, had been as a savor of life unto life to many hungry souls.

Jack was astonished at the things he heard, and still more at those he did not hear; and not a little grieved to find that some of his favorite legends of saints had no place in the Scripture at all.

"Tell me of St. Anne, our Lady's mother," he said one day.

"There is only one place about St. Anne," replied the shepherd, and he repeated the story of our Lord's presentation in the temple.

"Is that all?" asked Jack in a disappointed one. "I do not see that it says a word about her being our Lady's mother."

"Nothing at all," answered the shepherd.

"Perhaps the story is in some other place," Jack suggested.

But the old man shook his head.

"I have read the New Testament all through," he said. "There is not a word said about our Lady's mother, and very little about our Lady herself."

Jack looked startled. "But do you think it could have been the true and right Gospel, Uncle Thomas?" he said. "The priests tell us more about our Lady than about our Lord himself; and I am sure that Anne says ten prayers to her for one that she says to our Lord."

The old man did not answer immediately, and Jack repeated his question, "Do you think it could have been the true Gospel after all?"

"I have been thinking, Jack—" said the shepherd, after a little silence, and without answering or seeming to hear the question, "I have been thinking that I have perhaps done wrong in this matter."

"How?" asked Jack.

"Because the knowledge I have given you, may bring you into danger. Because the questions I have raised in your young mind will not be lightly laid again. And how shall I answer it to your father, if anything happen to you?"

"But, Uncle Thomas," said Jack, after a little silence, "your father did not fear to expose you to the danger."

"No, because my father was fully persuaded in his own mind. He esteemed the true knowledge of God and his truth worth every danger which could befall. I well remember his words to me, whispered in my ear as he gave me his last embrace, 'My son, remember the words of our Lord: Fear not them that kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do; but fear him who is able to cast body and soul into hell!'"

"I cannot but think he was right," said Jack, with decision, after a little pause. "I cannot but think the truth must be worth any danger that can come upon us for its sake. Nor can I yet understand why reading God's Word should make men heretics. The priest at the convent says it is because ignorant men know not how to use it, and that it is like a poisonous drug which can be safely touched only by a physician."

"Ay, I have heard that story often enough," said the old man; "and how that the giving the Scripture to the common folk is a casting of holy things to the dogs and pearls before swine. A pretty saying indeed, to call those for whom Christ died, dogs and swine!"

"Do they then christen little whelps and pigs?" asked Jack, shrewdly. "Methinks that were as great an abuse of holy things as reading the Bible to the vulgar people."

The shepherd smiled. "Thou art a shrewd lad. Take care that thou make thy wit keep thy head instead of losing it."

"I will take care," replied Jack, with all the confidence of fifteen. "But, uncle, according to all that you tell me, the holy apostles were but common men like ourselves. St. Peter and St. John were fishermen and worked for their bread; and yet our Lord's sayings were spoken to them."

"Yes, I have often thought of that," replied Thomas Sprat. "Those they called the Pharisees were learned men, it would seem, and yet our Lord did not call His apostles from among them. He even told them that the publicans and the harlots should go into the kingdom before them. Strange how the words come back to me more and more!" continued the old man, in a musing tone. "I would not have thought I could repeat so many: 'But the Holy Ghost shall teach you, and shall bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have told you.' I well remember how my mother repeated to me those words when I first went from home to the Stonehill farm. I was deploring my fate in being obliged to go away where I could no longer hear and read the Word of God, and saying that I feared that I should forget all that I had learned."

"'My son,' said she, 'remember that you carry with you a teacher who is able to make you wise, even without the words of this book, and without whom even the book itself can teach you nothing. I mean the Holy Spirit of God. Our Lord promised this Spirit of truth to His disciples, and said:'"

"'"He shall teach you all things, and bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have told you."'"

"'Ask constantly for this Spirit, my son, and it shall be given you.'"

"And so verily have I found it. I have been exposed to many dangers and temptations in my long and wandering life, and, woe is me! I have sinned often and grievously; but in times of the greatest trial, there have been brought to my remembrance words of my father's book which have kept me back from sinning, or encouraged me to return when I had wandered away."

"And do you think," asked Jack, in a tone of awe, "that it was the Holy Ghost which brought these words to your mind?"

"I cannot but think so, my son."

"But, Uncle Thomas," said Jack, "is it not—"

"I believe I know what you would say, my son," said the old man, as Jack paused. "You would ask if it is not presumption to suppose that God Himself teaches and governs us. I cannot think so. It would be so, doubtless, if He had not given us warrant for it in His Word; but so long as He says, He is more ready to give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him than earthly parents are to give good gifts to their children, I think we are bound to believe Him."

"'If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your Heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him?'"

"Jack," added the old man with energy, "I thank God that I have been led to open my heart to you, for the repeating of the Scriptures to you has so refreshed my memory of them, as I could not have believed possible."

"And I am thankful too," said Jack. He sat musing for some minutes, and then added, "Yes, I am thankful, and shall always be thankful, even though the words of Scripture should bring me to such a fate as they did poor Agnes Harland."

"Who is Agnes Harland?" asked the shepherd.

Jack started.

"I am wrong," said he. "I promised Anne I would never tell the tale again. It was something which happened in the convent."

The shepherd nodded sagaciously. "Ay, ay. I can guess," said he, "but say no more, dear boy. Remember that a promise broken without great necessity is a lie told, and beware, of all things, of lying. But this is the conclusion of the matter: God is always ready to hear the prayers of His children, and to help them at their need."

"But, Uncle Thomas, suppose one should wish to pray for something, and should not know any prayer which said what he wanted."

"Then I suppose he must make a prayer for himself, as David did, and as other saints have done. I know no other way."

That night when Jack went to bed, he prayed that God would show him where the old Bible was hidden, or send him another.

A few days after this conversation, Master Lucas made his appearance at the shepherd's cottage, mounted on his easy ambling mule, and followed by his man Simon.

"Well, well," he exclaimed, with his usual jolly laugh, as Jack ran to help his father dismount. "Why, this is fine, to be sure! This is a sight for sore eyes. Uncle Thomas, you are worth all the doctors and wise women in Bridgewater. Bless thee, boy, thy father's heart is glad to see thee again."

"It is but little that I have done," said Thomas Sprat. "The credit of Jack's cure belongs to the fresh air of the hill far more than to me. But come in, come in, cousin Lucas. You must be in need of refreshment. You do not often ride so far from home."

"Why, no, not of late years," replied the baker, bowing his head to enter the low door of the cottage. "I do grow too stout for journeying. Ho! Dame Margery, how goes all with you? Why, you look so young and well-favored, we shall have you fitted with a gay bridegroom next."

"Fie, fie! Master Lucas!" replied the old woman, chuckling nevertheless at the compliment. "Well-favored is far past my time of life. But you yourself are looking purely, Master Lucas, and your voice is like the knight's hunting horn. 'Tis not often I hear any one so plainly."

"Come now, I cannot have you young folks bandying fine speeches," said the shepherd. "Bestir yourself, Margery, and provide refreshment for Master Lucas and his man and for the beasts."

"Don't trouble yourself about the beasts," said Master Lucas. "The fine fresh grass will be a treat to the poor things. I have brought thee some linen and such like, my lad, and Cicely has packed a whole pannier of good things. Bid Simon bring them into the house."

"And Anne, dear father?" asked Jack. "How is Anne?"

Master Lucas's face clouded at mention of his daughter. "Why, well in health—that is, think she would be well if she would let herself alone and live like the rest of us; but she is wearing herself into her grave with her penances. 'Twas but the other day, I found out that she slept on the hard boards every night, and, not content with that, she must needs strew ashes on them. I know not what to do with her, and that is the truth. But there is great news about the gray nuns' convent where she learned all these ways. It is to be put down by order of my lord cardinal, along with many others—some forty, they say—all small ones like this."

The hidden treasure

The Hidden Treasure

[CHAPTER I.]

[CHAPTER II.]

[CHAPTER III.]

[CHAPTER IV.]