On the heap of rags, five persons were lying, huddled close together for warmth's sake—father, mother, and three children. How had they come into such a condition as this? Ah, they had not always lived thus. Only a few years ago, this man had been a prosperous silversmith at Reading; his wife had been well dressed, his children well fed, his acquaintance large, and himself generally respected. How had it come about that they were now in this pitiable condition? Had the man been idle and neglectful of his business? By no means; he had been diligent and hard-working. Was he a drunken profligate? Not at all; he was, for the age, unusually sober. Had he committed some terrible crime which had brought him to ruin?

The only true answer seems scarcely possible: and yet the only answer possible is awfully true. The man was born a Jew, and had become a Christian. It was only natural that this should turn the Jewish community against him; and all his acquaintances deserted him as a matter of course. But surely this very fact should have made the Christian community more friendly and helpful! Alas, the Christian community, in bondage to the iron yoke of Rome, hated him more as a Jew than they welcomed him as a Christian. Rome has always been the hater and opponent of Israel. The law of England at that time was actually this: that if a Jew became converted to Christianity, he forfeited everything he possessed to the Crown, and had to begin the world again. This had been the lot of poor David ben Mossi, and his wife Ruth, whose conversion had taken place under Gerhardt's preaching. They were too honest to hide the change in their convictions, though to reveal it meant worldly ruin. They applied for baptism, and by so doing literally gave up all for Christ—home, goods, gain, and occupation, not to speak of friends. David obtained work as a woodcutter, which brought them in just enough to keep life in them and rags about them; and he built with his own hands, aided by his faithful Ruth, the mud hovel, wherein they found the only shelter that this cold world had for them. They had left Reading, preferring solitude to averted looks and abusive tongues; and not a creature in Dorchester came near them. Alike as Jews and as poor people, they were not worth cultivating.

David had retained his name, being one used also by Christians; but Ruth had been required to change hers. She had chosen the name of Christian, as the most truthful and expressive that she could take.

"And I like to feel," she said to David, "that I have something of our blessed Lord in my name."

"Let us keep Him in our hearts, Wife," was the answer: "then it will not much matter whether or no we have Him any where else."

It was bitterly cold in the hovel that snowy night. The children had cried themselves to sleep, and the parents felt as if they could easily have done the same. The lights were out at Dorchester, and all nature had settled down to rest, when Christian, who could not sleep for the cold, fancied she heard a voice outside the hut.

"David!" it seemed to say.

But the voice, if voice there were, was faint, and Christian did not like to rouse the husband who had lost his suffering in sleep, for what might have been a mere fancy. The voice spoke again.

"Ruth!" it said this time.

Christian hesitated no longer.

"David! There is one without, calling on us. And it must be one we knew of old, for it calls me by my old name. Pray thee, get up, and let the poor soul in; 'tis not a night for a dog to tarry without, never speak of a human creature, who must be in some trouble."

David sat up and listened.

"I hear nothing, Wife. I think thou must have been dreaming."

"Nay, I have been wide awake this hour gone. I am sure some one spoke."

"I think it's fancy, Christian. However—"

"There's no harm in making sure."

"There's the harm of letting in a lot of snow," said David, not suiting the action to the word, for he had risen and was pulling on his hose. They required careful pulling, as they were so nearly in pieces that very little rough handling would have damaged them past repair. He was fastening the last clasp when the voice spoke again. It was nearer now, close at the door, and it was low and trembling, as if the applicant had hard work to speak at all.

"For the love of the Crucified," it said, "take in a Christian child!"

David's response was to open the door instantly.

Something at once staggered in, and sank down on the bench:—something which looked at first sight more like a statue of white marble than a human being, so thick lay the snow over the wrappers which enfolded it. But when David had succeeded in unfolding the wrappers, and brushing off the snow, they discovered that their visitor was a woman, and that in her arms a child lay clasped, either dead or sleeping.

The moment that Christian perceived so much as this, she hastily rose, throwing her poor mantle over her, and drew near to the stranger.

"Poor soul, you're heartily welcome," she said, "whoever you are. We have little beside a roof to offer you, for we have scarcely food or raiment ourselves, nor money to buy either; but such as we have we will give you with all our hearts."

"May the Blessed bless you!" was the faint answer. "Don't you know me, Ruth?"

"Know you!" Christian studied the face of her unexpected guest. "Nay, I do almost believe—Countess! Is it you?"

"Ay."

"Whatever has brought you to this? The richest Jewess in Reading! Have you, too, become a Christian like us?"

Countess did not give a direct answer to that direct question.

"I am not poor now," she said. "I can find you money for food for us all, if you will suffer me to stay here till the storm has abated, and the roads can be travelled again."

"That won't be this s'ennight," interjected David.

"But how—what?" queried Christian helplessly.

"This brought me," said Countess, touching the child. "I was under vow to save him. And—well, I could not do it otherwise."

"Is he alive?" asked Christian pityingly.

"Yes, only very fast asleep. Lay him down with your little ones, and wrap this coverlet over them all, which has sheltered us in our journey."

It was a down coverlet of rich damask silk. Christian's fingers touched it as with a feeling of strangeness, and yet familiarity—as a handling of something long unfelt, but well-known years ago.

"I have nothing to offer you save a crust of barley bread," she said hesitatingly. "I am sorry for it, but it is really all I have."

"Then," said Countess with a smile, "play the widow of Zarephath. Give me thy 'little cake,' and when the light dawns, you shall have a new cruse and barrel in reward."

"Nay, we look for no reward," answered Christian heartily. "I am only grieved that it should be so little. You are spent with your journey."

"I am most spent with the weight. I had to carry the child, and this," she replied, touching a large square parcel, tied in a silk handkerchief round her waist. "It is the child's property—all he has in the world. May the Blessed One be praised that I have saved them both!"

"'To them that have no might, He increaseth strength,'" quoted Christian softly. "Then—is not this your child?"

"Yes—now."

"But not—?"

"By gift, not by birth. And it is the Holy One who has given him. Now, good friends, let me not keep you from sleeping. Perhaps I shall sleep myself. We will talk more in the morning."

It was evident when the morning arrived, that the saved child had suffered less than she who had saved him. Both needed care, nourishment, and rest; but Countess wanted it far more than Rudolph. A few days sufficed to restore him to his usual lively good health; but it was weeks ere she recovered the physical strain and mental suffering of that terrible night. But Countess was one of those people who never either "give in" or "give up." Before any one but herself thought her half fit for it, she went out, not mentioning her destination, on an expedition which occupied the greater part of a day, and returned at night with a satisfied expression on her face.

"I have settled every thing," she said. "And now I will tell you something. Perhaps you were puzzled to know why I sought shelter with you, instead of going to some of my wealthy acquaintances in the town?"

"I was, very much," answered Christian hesitatingly.

"I supposed you had some reason for it," said David.

"Right. I had a reason—a strong one. That I shall not tell you at present. But I will tell you what perhaps you have already guessed— that I have been divorced from Leo."

"Well, I fancied you must have had a quarrel with him, or something of that kind," replied Christian.

"Oh, we are on excellent terms," said Countess in a rather sarcastic tone. "So excellent, that he even proposed himself to lend me an escort of armed retainers to convey me to London."

"To London!" exclaimed Christian, in some surprise. "I thought you would be going back to your father's house at Oxford."

"Oh, no!—that would not do at all. I did think of it for a moment; not now. London will be much better."

"May I take the liberty to ask how you mean to live?" said David. "Of course it is no business of mine, but—"

"Go on," said Countess, when he hesitated.

"Well, I don't quite see what you can do, without either husband or father. Perhaps your brother Rubi is coming with you? You can't live alone, surely."

"I could, and get along very well, too; but I suppose one must not defy the world, foolish thing as it is. No, my brother Rubi is not coming, and I don't want him either. But I want you—David and Ruth."

David and Ruth—as Countess persisted in calling her—looked at each other in surprise and perplexity.

"You can take a week to think about it," resumed Countess, in her coolest manner, which was very cool indeed. "I shall not set forth until the Sabbath is over. But I do not suppose you are so deeply in love with this hovel that you could not bring yourselves to leave it behind."

"What do you mean us to do or be?"

"I intend to set up a silversmith's and jeweller's shop, and I mean David to be the silversmith, and to train Rudolph to the business."

This sounded practical. David's heart leaped within him, at the thought of returning to his old status and occupation.

"I could do that," he said, with a gleam in his eyes.

"I know you could," replied Countess.

"And I?" suggested Christian wistfully.

"You may see to the house, and keep the children out of mischief. We shall want some cooking and cleaning, I suppose; and I hate it."

"Do you take no servants with you?" asked Christian, in an astonished tone. For a rich lady like Countess to travel without a full establishment, both of servants and furniture, was amazing to her.

"I take the child with me," said Countess.

Christian wondered why the one should hinder the other; but she said no more.

"But—" David began, and stopped.

"I would rather hear all the objections before I set forth," responded Countess calmly.

"Countess, you must clearly understand that we cannot deny our faith."

"Who asked you to do so?"

"Nor can we hide it."

"That is your own affair. Do Christians clean silver worse than Jews?"

"They should not, if they are real Christians and not mere pretenders."

"Shams—I hate shams. Don't be a sham anything. Please yourself whether you are a Jew or a Christian, but for goodness' sake don't be a sham."

"I hope I am not that," said David. "If you are content with us, Countess, my wife and I will be only too happy to go with you. The children—"

"Oh, you don't fancy leaving them behind? Very well—they can play with Rudolph, and pull the cat's tail."

"I shall whip them if they do," said Christian, referring not to Rudolph, but to the cat.

"Countess, do you mean to cut yourself off from all your friends?" asked David, with a mixed feeling of perplexity and pity. "I cannot understand why you should do so."

"'Friends!'" she replied, with an indescribable intonation. "I fancy I shall take them all with me. Do as I bid thee, David, and trouble not thyself to understand me."

David felt silenced, and asked no more questions.

"Rudolph must have an English name," said Countess abruptly. "Let him be called Ralph henceforth. That is the English version of his own name, and he will soon grow accustomed to it."

"What is he to call you?" asked Christian.

"What he pleases," was the answer.

What it pleased Rudolph to do was to copy the other children, and say "Mother;" but he applied the term impartially alike to Countess and to Christian, till the latter took him aside, and suggested that it would be more convenient if he were to restrict the term to one of them.

"You see," she said, "if you call us both by one name, we shall never know which of us you mean."

"Oh, it does not matter," answered Master Rudolph with imperial unconcern. "Either of you could button me up and tie my shoes. But if you like, I'll call you Christie."

"I think it would be better if you did," responded Christian with praiseworthy gravity.

From the time that this matter was settled until the journey was fairly begun, Countess showed an amount of impatience and uneasiness which it sometimes took all Christian's meekness to bear. She spent the whole day, while the light lasted, at the little lattice, silently studying a large square volume, which she carefully wrapped every evening in silk brocade, and then in a woollen handkerchief, placing it under the pillow on which she slept, and which had come from Leo's house for her use. Beyond that one day's expedition, she never quitted the hut till they left Dorchester. Of the hardships inseparable from her temporary position she did not once complain; all her impatience was connected with some inner uncertainty or apprehension which she did not choose to reveal. Rudolph looked far more disdainfully than she on the rye-crusts and ragged garments of his companions.

At last, on the Sunday morning—for nobody dreamed in those days of not travelling on Sunday after mass—a small party of armed servants arrived at the hut, leading three palfreys and four baggage-mules, beside their own horses. Three of the mules were already loaded. Countess issued her orders, having evidently considered and settled every thing beforehand. Christian was to ride one palfrey, Countess the other, and David the third, with Rudolph in front of him. His children were to be disposed of, in panniers, on the back of the unloaded mule, with a lad of about fifteen years, who was one of the escort, behind them.

"Hast thou found us any convoy, Josce?" asked Countess of the man who took direction of the escort.

Josce doffed his cap to answer his mistress, to whom he showed considerable deference.

"Deuslesalt journeys to-day as far as Wallingford," he said, "and Simeon the usurer, who has a strong guard, will go thence to-morrow to Windsor."

"Good. Set forth!" said Countess.

So they set out from the mud hovel. The snow was still deep in many parts, but it had been trodden down in the well-worn tracks, such as was the high road from Oxford to London. Countess rode first of the party, ordering David to ride beside her; Christian came next, by the mule which bore her children; the armed escort was behind. A mile away from the hut they joined the imposing retinue of Deuslesalt, who was a wealthy silk-merchant, and in their company the journey to Wallingford was accomplished. There Countess and Rudolph found shelter with Deuslesalt in the house of a rich Jew, while David, Christian, and the children were received as travellers in a neighbouring hospital; for an hospital, in those days, was not necessarily a place where the sick were treated, but was more of the nature of a large almshouse, where all the inmates lived and fared in common.

On the second day they joined the usurer's party, which was larger and stronger than that of the silk-merchant. At Windsor they found an inn where they were all lodged; and the following day they entered London. It now appeared that Countess had in some mysterious manner made preparation for her coming; for they rode straight to a small house at the corner of Mark Lane, which they found plainly but comfortably furnished to receive them. Countess paid liberally and dismissed her escort, bade David unpack the goods she had brought, and dispose of the jewels in the strong safes built into the walls, desired Christian to let her know if anything necessary for the house were not provided, and established herself comfortably at the window with her big book, and Rudolph on a hassock at her feet.

"David!" she said, looking up, when the unpacking was about half done.

David touched his forelock in answer.

"I wish thou wouldst buy a dog and cat."

"Both?" demanded David, rather surprised. "They will fight."

"Oh, the cat is for the children," said Countess coolly; "I don't want one. But let the dog be the biggest thou canst get."

"I think I'd have the dog by himself," said David. "The children will be quite as well pleased. And if you want a big one, he is pretty sure to be good-tempered."

So David and Rudolph went to buy a dog, and returned with an amiable shaggy monster quite as tall as the latter—white and tan, with a smile upon his lips, and a fine feathery tail, which little Helwis fell at once to stroking. This eligible member of the family received the name of Olaf, and was clearly made to understand that he must tolerate anything from the children, and nothing from a burglar.

Things were settling down, and custom already beginning to come into the little shop, when one evening, as they sat round the fire, Countess surprised David with a question—

"David, what did the priest to thee when thou wert baptised?"

David looked up in some astonishment.

"Why, he baptised me," said he simply.

"I want to know all he did," said Countess.

"Don't think I could tell you if I tried. He put some oil on me, and some spittle,—and water, of course,—and said ever so many prayers."

"What did he say in his prayers?"

"Eh, how can I tell you? They were all in Latin."

"The Lord does not speak French or English, then?" demanded Countess satirically.

"Well!" said David, scratching his head, "when you put it that way—"

"I don't see what other way to put it. But I thought they baptised with water?"

"Oh, yes, the real baptism is with water."

"Then what is the good of the unreal baptism, with oil and other rubbish?"

"I cry you mercy, but you must needs ask the priest. I'm only an ignorant man."

"Dost thou think he knows?"

"The priest? Oh, of course."

"I should like to be as sure as thou art. Can any body baptise?—or must it be done by a priest only?"

"Oh, only—well—" David corrected himself. "Of course the proper person is a priest. But in case of necessity, it can be done by a layman. A woman, even, may do it, if a child be in danger of death. But then, there is no exorcism nor anointing; only just the baptising with water."

"I should have thought that was all there need be, at any time."

With that remark Countess dropped the subject. But a few days later she resumed the catechising, though this time she chose Christian as her informant.

"What do Christians mean by baptism?"

Christian paused a moment. She had not hitherto reflected on the esoteric meaning of the ceremony to which she had been ordered to submit as the introductory rite of her new religion.

"I suppose," she said slowly, "it must mean—confession."

"Confession of what?" inquired Countess.

"Of our faith in the Lord Jesus," replied Christian boldly.

To Christian's surprise, Countess made no scornful answer. She sat in silence, looking from the window with eyes that saw neither the knight who was riding past, nor the fish-woman selling salt cod to the opposite neighbour.

"Can faith not exist without confession?" she said in a low tone.

"Would it not be poor faith?"

"Why?" demanded Countess, drawing her brows together, and in a tone that was almost fierce.

"I should think there would be no love in it. And faith which had no love in it would be a very mean, shabby, worthless sort of faith."

"I don't see that," said Countess stubbornly. "I believe that this book is lying on the window-seat. Can't I do that without loving either the window-seat or the book?"

"Ah, yes, when you only believe things. But the faith which is shown in baptism is not believing a fact; it is trusting yourself, body and soul, with a Person."

"That makes a difference, I dare say," replied Countess, and relapsed into silence.

A week later she came into the shop, where David was busy polishing up the ornaments in stock.

"David," she said abruptly, "what does a Christian do when he is completely perplexed, and cannot tell how to act?"

"Well, I don't exactly know," said David, looking perplexed himself. "Never was like that, so far as I know. Leastwise—No, I couldn't just say I ever have been."

"O happy man! Some Christians are, sometimes, I suppose?"

"I should think so. I don't know."

"What wouldst thou do, then, if thou wert in a slough from which thou sawest not the way out?"

"Why, I think—I should pray the Lord to show me the way out. I don't see what else I could do."

"And if no answer came?"

"Then I should be a bit afraid it meant that I'd walked in myself, and hadn't heeded His warnings. Sometimes, I think, when folks do that, He leaves them to flounder awhile before He helps them out."

"That won't do this time."

"Well, if that's not it, then maybe it would be because I wanted to get out on my own side, and wouldn't see His hand held out on the other. The Lord helps you out in His way, not yours: and that often means, up the steeper-looking bank of the two."

Countess was silent. David applied himself to bending the pin of a brooch, which he thought rather too straight.

"Is it ever right to do wrong?" she said suddenly.

"Why, no!—how could it be?" answered David, looking up.

"You put me deeper in the slough, every word you say. I will go no further to-day."

And she turned and walked away.

"Christie," said David to his wife that evening, "thou and I must pray for our mistress."

"Why, what's the matter with her?"

"I don't know. She's in some trouble; and I think it is not a little trouble. Unless I mistake, it is trouble of a weary, wearing sort, that she goes round and round in, and can't see the way out."

"But what are we to ask for, if we know nothing?"

"Dear heart! ask the Lord to put it right. He knows the way out; He does not want us to tell Him."

A fortnight elapsed before any further conversation took place. At the end of that time Ash Wednesday came, and David and Christian went to church as usual. The service was half over, when, to their unspeakable astonishment, they perceived Countess standing at the western door, watching every item of the ceremonies, with an expression on her face which was half eager, half displeased, but wholly disturbed and wearied. She seemed desirous to avoid being seen, and slipped out the instant the mass was over.

"Whatever brought her there?" asked Christian.

David shook his head.

"I expect it was either the Lord or the Devil," he said. "Let us ask Him more earnestly to bring her out of the slough on the right side."

"Did you see me in All Hallows this morning?" asked Countess abruptly, as they sat beside the fire that night. The children were in bed, and Olaf lying on the hearth.

"Ay, I did," replied Christian; and her tone added—"to my surprise."

"What are those things for there?"

"What things?"

"A number of dolls, all painted and gilt."

"Do you mean the holy images?"

"I mean the images. I don't believe in the holiness."

"They are images of the blessed saints."

"What are they for?" demanded Countess, knitting her brows.

"The priest says they are to remind us, and are helps to prayer."

"To whose prayers?" said Countess disdainfully. "No woman in England prays more regularly than I; but I never wanted such rubbish as that to help me."

"Oh, they don't help me," said David. "I never pay any attention to them; I just pray straight up."

"I don't understand praying to God in the House of Baal. 'Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image.'"

"But they say the Church has loosed that command now. And of course we can't set ourselves up above the Church."

"What on earth do you mean? Art thou God, to kill and to make alive, that thou shouldst style the keeping of His command 'setting one's self above the Church?' The Church shall never guide me, if she speak contrary to God."

"But how can she, when God inspires her?"

"There is another question I want settled first. How can I believe that God inspires her, when I see that she contradicts His distinct commands?"

"I suppose the priest would say that was very wicked."

"What do I care for that popinjay? How did you get over it? Had you no sensation of horror, when you were required to bow down to those stocks and stones?"

"Well, no," said Christian, speaking very slowly. "I believed what Gerard had taught us, and—"

"When did Gerhardt ever teach you that rubbish?"

"He never did," answered David. "The priests taught us that. And I did find it main hard to swallow at first."

"Ah! I'm afraid I shall find it too hard to swallow at last. But there is nothing of all that in this book."

"I know nought about books. But of course the Church must know the truth," responded David uneasily.

"This is the truth," answered Countess, laying her hand upon the book. "But if this be, that is not. David—Ruth—I believe as you do in Jesus Christ of Nazareth: but I believe in no gilded images nor priestly lies. I shall take my religion from His words, not from them. I should like to be baptised, if it mean to confess Him before men; but if it only mean to swallow the priests' fables, and to kneel before gods that cannot hear nor save, I will have none of it. As the Lord liveth, before whom I stand, I will never bow down to the work of men's hands!"

She had risen and stood before them, a grand figure, with hands clenched and eyes on fire. Christian shrank as if alarmed. David spoke in a regretful tone.

"Well! I thought that way myself for a while. But they said. I couldn't be a Christian if I did not go to church, and attend the holy mass. The Church had the truth, and God had given it to her: so I thought I might be mistaken, and I gave in. I've wondered sometimes whether I did right."

"If that be what baptism means—to put my soul into the hands of that thing they call the Church, and let it mould me like wax—to defile myself with all the idols and all the follies that I see there—I will not be baptised. I will believe without it. And if He ask me at the Day of Doom why I did not obey His command given in Galilee, I shall say, 'Lord, I could not do it without disobeying Thy first command, given amid the thunders of Sinai.' If men drive me to do thus, it will not be my sin, but theirs."

"Well, I don't know!" answered David, in evident perplexity. "I suppose you could be baptised, with nothing more—but I don't know any priest that would do it."

"Would you do it?"

"Oh, I daren't!"

"David, your religion is very queer."

"What's the matter?" asked David in astonishment.

"The other day, when I told you I was in a great slough, you did not advise me to go and ask those gaudy images to help me out of it; you spoke of nobody but the Lord. Now that we come to talk about images, you flounder about as if you did not know what to say."

"Well, don't you see, I know one o' them two, but I've only been told the other."

"Oh yes, I see. You are not the first who has had one religion for sunshiny weather, and another for rainy days; only that with you— different from most people—you wear your best robe in the storm."

David rubbed his face upon the sleeve of his jacket, as if he wished to rub some more discrimination into his brains.

"Nay, I don't know—I hope you've no call to say that."

"I usually say what I think. But there's no need to fret; you've time to mend."

Both the women noticed that for a few days after that, David was very silent and thoughtful. When the Sunday came he excused himself from going to church, much to the surprise and perplexity of his wife. The day after he asks for a holiday, and did not return till late at night.

As they sat round the fire on the following evening, David said suddenly,—"I think I've found it out."

"What?" asked his mistress.

"Your puzzle—and my own too."

"Let me have the key, by all means, if you possess it."

"Well, I have been to see the hermit of Holywell. They say he is the holiest man within reach of London, go what way you will. And he has read me a bit out of a book that seems to settle the matter. At least I thought so. Maybe you mightn't see it so easy."

"It takes more than fair words to convince me. However, let me hear what it is. What was the book? I should like to know that first."

"He said it was an epistle written by Paul the Apostle to somebody—I can't just remember whom."

"Who was he?"

"Why, he was one of the saints, wasn't he?"

"I don't know. There's no mention of him in my book."

David looked like a man stopped unexpectedly in rapid career. "You always want to know so much about every thing!" he said, rubbing his face on his sleeve, as he had a habit of doing when puzzled. "Now I never thought to ask that."

"But before I can act on a message from my superior, I must surely satisfy myself as to the credentials of the messenger. However, let us hear the message. Perhaps that may tell us something. Some things bear on their faces the evidence of what they are—still more of what they are not."

"Well, what he read was this: 'If thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised Him from the dead, thou shalt be saved.' And 'Look you,' saith he, 'there isn't a word here of any body else.' 'If thou shalt confess' Him—not the saints, nor the images, nor the Church, nor the priest. 'Baptism,' saith he, 'is confessing Him.' Then he turned over some leaves, and read a bit from another place, how our Lord said, 'Come unto Me, all ye—'"

Countess's eyes lighted up suddenly. "That's in my book. 'All ye that travail and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you.'"

"That's it. And says he, 'He does not say, "Come to the Church or the priest," but "Come to Me."' 'Well,' says I, 'but how can you do one without the other?' 'You may come to the priest easy enough, and never come to Christ,' saith he, 'so it's like to be as easy to come to Christ without the priest.' 'Well, but,' says I, 'priests doesn't say so.' 'No,' says he; 'they don't'—quite short like. 'But for all I can see in this book,' says he, 'He does.'"

"Go on!" said Countess eagerly, when David paused.

"Well, then—I hope you'll excuse me if I said more than I should—says I to him, 'Now look here, Father: suppose you had somebody coming to you for advice, that had been a Jew like me, and was ready to believe in our Lord, but could not put up with images and such, would you turn him away because he could not believe enough, or would you baptise him?' 'I would baptise him,' saith he. Then he turns over the book again, and reads: '"Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved." That is what the Apostles said to one man,' says he: 'and if it was enough then, it is enough now.' 'But, Father,' says I, 'that sounds rather as if you thought the Church might go wrong, or had gone wrong, in putting all these things beside our Lord.' 'My son,' saith he, 'what meanest thou by the Church? The Holy Ghost cannot teach error. Men in the Church may go wrong, and are continually wandering into error. What said our Lord to the rulers of the Jews, who were the priests of His day? "Ye do err, not knowing the Scriptures." This book is truth: when men leave this book,' saith he, 'they go astray.' 'But not holy Church?' said I. 'Ah,' saith he, 'the elect may stray from the fold; how much more they that are strangers there? The only safe place for any one of us,' he says, 'is to keep close to the side of the Good Shepherd.'"

"David, where dwells that hermit?"

"By the holy well, away on the Stronde, west of Lud Gate. Any body you meet on that road will tell you where to find him. His hut stands a bit back from the high way, on the north."

"Very good. I'll find him."

The next day, until nearly the hour of curfew, nothing was seen of Countess. She took Olaf with her as guard, and they returned at the last moment, just in time to enter the City before the gates were closed. David and Christian had finished their work, shut up the shop, and put the children to bed, when Olaf made his stately entrance, with his mistress behind him.

"Thy old hermit," she said, addressing David, "is the first decent Christian I have found—the first that goes by his Master's words, and does not worry me with nonsense."

She drew off her hood, and sat down in the chimney-corner.

"You found him then?" answered David. "Had you much trouble?"

"I found him. Never mind the trouble."

"Has he settled the puzzle for you, then?"

"I think I settled it for him."

"I ask your pardon, but I don't understand you."

"I don't suppose you do."

"Countess," said Christian, coming down the ladder, "I bought the herrings as you bade me; but there is no salt salmon in the market to-day."

"To whom are you speaking?" inquired Countess, with an expression of fun about the corners of her lips.

"You," replied Christian in surprise.

"Then, perhaps you will have the goodness to call me by my Christian name, which is Sarah."

"O Countess! have you been baptised?"

"I have."

"By the hermit?"

"By the hermit."

"But how?"

"How? With water. What did you expect?"

"But—all at once, without any preparation?"

"What preparation was needed? I made my confession of Christ, and he baptised me in His name. The preparation was only to draw the water."

"What on earth did you do for sponsors?"

"Had none."

"Did he let you?"

A little smothered laugh came from Countess. "He had not much choice," she said. "He did try it on. But I told him plainly, I was not going to give in to that nonsense: that if he chose to baptise me at once, I was there ready, and would answer any questions and make any confession that he chose. But if not—not. I was not coming again."

"And he accepted it!" said David, with a dozen notes of exclamation in his voice.

"Did I not tell you he was the most sensible Christian I ever found? He said, 'Well!—after all, truly, any thing save the simple baptism with water was a man-made ordinance. The Ethiopian eunuch had no sponsors'— I don't know who he was, but I suppose the hermit did—'and he probably made as true a Christian for all that' 'In truth,' said I, 'the institution of sponsors seems good for little children—friends who promise to see that they shall be brought up good Christians if their parents die early; but for a woman of my age, it is simply absurd, and I won't have it. Let me confess Christ as my Messiah and Lord, and baptise me with water in His name, and I am sure he will be satisfied with it. And if any of the saints and angels are not satisfied, they can come down and say so, if they think it worth while.' So—as he saw, I suppose, that I was not going to do it—he gave in."

"I hope it's all right," said David, rather uneasily.

"David, I wish I could put a little sense into you. You are a good man, but you are a very foolish one. 'All right!' Of course it is all right. It is man, and not God, who starts at trifles like a frightened horse, and makes men offenders for a word. The Lord looketh on the heart."

"Ay, but Moses (on whom be peace!) was particular enough about some details which look very trifling to us."

"He was particular enough where they concerned the honour of God, or where they formed a part of some symbolism which the alteration would cause to be wrongly interpreted so as to teach untruth. But for all else, he let them go, and so did our Lord. When Aaron explained why he had not eaten the goat of the sin-offering, Moses was content. Nor did Christ condemn David the King, but excused him, for eating the shewbread. I am sure Moses would have baptised me this morning, without waiting for sponsors or Lucca oil. This is a very silly world; I should have thought the Church might have been a trifle wiser, and really it seems to have less common sense of the two. How could I have found sponsors, I should like to know? I know nobody but you and Christian."

"They told us, when we were baptised, that the Church did not allow a husband and wife to be sponsors to the same person. So we could not both have stood for you. It would have had to be Christian and Rudolph, and some other woman."

"Rudolph! That baby! [Note 1.] Would they have let him stand?"

"Yes—if you could not find any one else."

"And promise to bring me up in the Catholic faith? Well, if that is not rich!—when I have got to bring him up! I will tell you what, David—if some benevolent saint would put a little common sense into the Church, it would be a blessing to somebody. 'The Church!' I am weary of that ceaseless parrot scream. The Church stands in the way to Jesus of Nazareth, not as a door to go in, but as a wall to bar out. I wish we had lived in earlier days, before all that rubbish had had time to grow. Now, mind you," concluded Countess, as she rose to go to bed, "David and Christian, I don't mean to be bothered about this. Don't talk to me, nor to Rudolph, nor to any body else. I shall read the Book, and teach him to do it; but I shall not pray to those gilded things; and he shall not. What Gerhardt taught is enough for him and me. And remember, if too much be said, the King's officers may come and take every thing away. I do not see that it is my duty to go and tell them. If they come, let them come, and God be my aid and provider! Otherwise, we had better keep quiet."

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Note 1. That little children were at times allowed to be sponsors in the Middle Ages, is proved by the instance of John Earl of Kent in 1330, whose brother and sister, the former probably under ten years of age, and the latter aged only eighteen months, stood sponsors for him. (Prob. aet. Johannis Com. Kant., 23 Edward Third, 76.)



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

WELL MET.

"O God, we are but leaves upon Thy stream, Clouds in Thy sky."

Dinah Mulock.

A busy place on a Monday morning was Bread Street, in the city of London. As its name denotes, it was the street of the bakers; for our ancestors did not give names, as we do, without reason, for mere distinction's sake. If a town gate bore the name of York Gate, that was equivalent to a signpost, showing that it opened on the York road. They made history and topography, where we only make confusion.

The fat, flour-besprinkled baker at the Harp, in Bread Street, was in full tide of business. His shelves were occupied by the eight different kinds of bread in common use—wassel, used only by knights and squires; cocket, the kind in ordinary use by smaller folk; maslin, a mixture of wheat, oats, and barley; barley, rye, and brown bread, the fare of tradesmen and monks; oaten, the food of the poorest; and horse bread. There were two or three varieties finer and better than these, only used by the nobles, which were therefore made at home, and not commonly to be found at the baker's: simnel, manchet or chet, and paynemayne or pain de main (a corruption of panis dominicus). We read also of pain le Rei, or the King's bread, but this may be paynemayne under another name. Even in the large towns, at that time, much of the baking was done at home; and the chief customers of the bakers were the cookshops or eating houses, with such private persons as had not time or convenience to prepare their own bread. The price of bread at this time does not appear to be on record; but about seventy years later, four loaves were sold for a penny. [Note 1.]

The cooks, who lived mainly in Eastcheap and along the water-side, of course had to provide bread of various kinds, to suit their different customers; and a young man, armed with a huge basket, came to have it filled with all varieties. Another young man had entered after him, and now stood waiting by the wall till the former should have finished his business.

"Now then," said the baker, turning to the man in waiting, as the other trudged forth with his basket: "what shall I serve you with?"

"I don't want you to serve me; I want to serve you," was the answer.

The baker looked him over with a good-natured but doubtful expression.

"Want to serve me, do you? Whence come you?"

"I'm an upland man." [From the country.]

"Got any one to speak for you?"

"A pair of eyes, a pair of hands, a fair wit, and a good will to work."

The fat baker looked amused. "And an honest repute, eh?" said he.

"I have it, but I can't give it you, except from my wife, and I scarcely suppose you'll be satisfied to go to her for my character."

"I'm not so sure of that!" laughed the baker. "If she'd speak truth, she could give you the character best worth having of any."

"She never yet spoke any thing else, nor did I."

"Ha, jolife!—you must be a fine pair. Well, now, speak the truth, and tell me why a decent, tidy-seeming young fellow like you can't get a character to give me."

"Because I should have to put my wife in peril, if I went back to do it," was the bold answer.

"Ha, so!" Such a possibility, in those rough days, was only too apparent to the honest baker. "Well, well! Had to run from a bad master, eh? Ay, ay, I see."

He did not see exactly the accurate details of the facts; but the applicant did not contradict him.

"Well! I could do with another hand, it's true; and I must say I like the look of you. How long have you been a baker's man?"

"When I've been with you seven days, it'll be just a week," was the humorous reply.

"What, you've all to learn? That's a poor lookout."

"A man that has all to learn, and has a will to it, will serve you better than one that has less to learn, and has no will to it."

"Come, I can't gainsay that. What have you been, then?"

"I have been watchman in a castle."

"Oh, ho!—how long?"

"Fifteen years."

"And what gives you a mind to be a baker?"

"Well, more notions than one. It's a clean trade, and of good repute; wholesome, for aught I know: there's no killing in it, for which I haven't a mind; and as folks must eat, it does not depend on fashion like some things. Moths don't get into bread and spoil it, nor rust neither; and if you can't sell it, you can eat it yourself, and you're no worse off, or not much. It dries and gets stale, of course, in time: but one can't have every thing; and seems to me there's as little risk in bread, and as little dirt or worry, as there is in any thing one can put one's hand to do. I'm not afraid of work, but I don't like dirt, loss, nor worry."

The fat baker chuckled. "Good for you, my lad!—couldn't have put it better myself. Man was made to labour, and I like to see a man that's not afraid of work. Keep clear of worry by all means; it eats a man's heart out, which honest work never does. Work away, and sing at your work—that's my notion: and it's the way to get on and be happy."

"I'm glad to hear it; I always do," said the applicant. "And mind you, lad,—I don't know an unhappier thing than discontent. When you want to measure your happiness, don't go and set your ell-wand against him that's got more than you have, but against him that's got less. Bread and content's a finer dinner any day than fat capon with grumble-sauce. We can't all be alike; some are up, and some down: but it isn't them at the top of the tree that's got the softest bed to lie on, nor them that sup on the richest pasties that most enjoy their supper. If a man wants to be comfortable, he must keep his heart clear of envy, and put a good will into his work. I believe a man may come to take pleasure in any thing, even the veriest drudgery, that brings a good heart to it and does his best to turn it out well."

"I am sure of that," was the response, heartily given.

The baker was pleased with the hearty response to the neat epigrammatic apothegms wherein he delighted to unfold himself. He nodded approval.

"I'll take you on trial for a month," he said. "And if you've given yourself a true character, you'll stay longer. I'll pay you—No, we'll settle that question when I have seen how you work."

"I'll stay as long as I can," was the answer, as the young man turned to leave the shop.

"Tarry a whit! What's your name, and how old are you?"

"I am one-and-thirty years of age, and my name is Stephen."

"Good. Be here when the vesper bell begins to ring."

Stephen went up to Cheapside, turned along it, up Lady Cicely's Lane, and out into Smithfield by one of the small posterns in the City wall. Entering a small house in Cock Lane, he went up a long ladder leading to a tiny chamber, screened-off from a garret. Here a tabby cat came to meet him, and rubbed itself against his legs as he stooped down to caress it, while Ermine, who sat on the solitary bench, looked up brightly to greet him.

"Any success, Stephen?"

"Thy prayer is heard, sweet heart. I have entered the service of a baker in Bread Street,—a good-humoured fellow who would take me at my own word. I told him I had no one to refer him to for a character but you,—I did not think of Gib, or I might have added him. You'd speak for me, wouldn't you, old tabby?"

Gib replied by an evidently affirmative "Me-ew!"

"I'll give you an excellent character," said Ermine, smiling, "and so will Gib, I am sure."

The baker was well satisfied when his new hand reached the Harp exactly as the vesper bell sounded its first stroke at Saint Mary-le-Bow.

"That's right!" said he. "I like to see a man punctual. Take this damp cloth and rub the shelves."

"Clean!" said he to himself a minute after. "Have you ever rubbed shelves before?"

"Not much," said Stephen.

"How much do you rub 'em?"

"Till they are clean."

"You'll do. Can you carry a tray on your head?"

"Don't know till I try."

"Best practise a bit, before you put any thing on it, or else we shall have mud pies," laughed the baker.

When work was over, the baker called Stephen to him.

"Now," said he, "let us settle about wages. I could not tell how much to offer you, till I saw how you worked. You've done very well for a new hand. I'll give you three-halfpence a-day till you've fairly learnt the trade, and twopence afterwards: maybe, in time, if I find you useful, I may raise you a halfpenny more: a penny of it in bread, the rest in money. Will that content you?"

"With a very good will," replied Stephen.

His wages as watchman at the Castle had been twopence per day, so that he was well satisfied with the baker's proposal.

"What work does your wife do?"

"She has none to do yet. She can cook, sew, weave, and spin."

"I'll bear it in mind, if I hear of any for her."

"Thank you," said Stephen; and dropping the halfpenny into his purse, he secured the loaves in his girdle, and went back to the small screened-off corner of the garret which at present he called home.

It was not long before the worthy baker found Stephen so useful that he raised his wages even to the extravagant sum of threepence a day. His wife, too, had occasional work for Ermine; and the thread she spun was so fine and even, and the web she wove so regular and free from blemishes, that one employer spoke of her to another, until she had as much work as she could do. Not many months elapsed before they were able to leave the garret where they had first found refuge, and take a little house in Ivy Lane; and only a few years were over when Stephen was himself a master baker and pastiller (or confectioner), Ermine presiding over the lighter dainties, which she was able to vary by sundry German dishes not usually obtainable in London, while he was renowned through the City for the superior quality of his bread. Odinel, the fat baker, who always remained his friend, loved to point a moral by Stephen's case in lecturing his journeymen.

"Why, do but look at him," he was wont to say; "when he came here, eight years ago, he scarcely knew wassel bread from cocket, and had never seen a fish pie save to eat. Now he has one of the best shops in Bread Street, and four journeymen under him. And how was it done, think you? There was neither bribery nor favour in it. Just by being honest, cleanly, and punctual, thorough in all he undertook, and putting heart and hands into the work. Every one of you can do as well as he did, if you only bestir yourselves and bring your will to it. Depend upon it, lads, 'I will' can do a deal of work. 'I can' is very well, but if 'I will' does not help him, 'I can' will not put many pennies in his pocket. 'I can'—'I ought'—'I will'—those are the three good fairies that do a man's work for him: and the man that starts work without them is like to turn out but a sorry fellow."

It was for Ermine's sake, that he might retain a hiding place for her if necessary, that Stephen continued to keep up the house in Ivy Lane. The ordinary custom was for a tradesman to live over or behind his shop. The excuse given out to the world was that Stephen and his wife, being country people, did not fancy being close mewed up in city streets; and between Ivy Lane and the fresh country green and air, there were only a few lanes and the city walls.

Those eight years passed quietly and peacefully to Stephen and Ermine. A small family—five in number—grew up around them, and Gib purred tranquilly on the hearth. They found new friends in London, and thanked God that He had chosen their inheritance for them, and had set their feet in a large room.

At that time, and for long afterwards, each trade kept by itself to its own street or district. The mercers and haberdashers lived in West Chepe or Cheapside, which Stephen had to go down every day. One morning, at the end of those eight years, he noticed that a shop long empty had been reopened, and over it hung a newly-painted signboard, with a nun's head. As Stephen passed, a woman came to the door to hang up some goods, and they exchanged a good look at each other.

"I wonder who it is you are like!" said Stephen to himself.

Then he passed on, and thought no more about her.

On two occasions this happened. When the third came, the woman suddenly exclaimed—

"I know who you are now!"

"Do you?" asked Stephen, coming to a halt. "I wish I knew who you are. I have puzzled over your likeness to somebody, and I cannot tell who it is."

The woman laughed, thereby increasing the mysterious resemblance which was perplexing Stephen.

"Why," said she, "you are Stephen Esueillechien, unless I greatly mistake."

"So I am," answered Stephen, "or rather, so I was; for men call me now Stephen le Bulenger. But who are you?"

"Don't you think I'm rather like Leuesa?"

"That's it! But how come you hither, old friend? Have you left my cousin? Or is she—"

"The Lady Derette is still in the anchorhold. I left her when I wedded. Do you remember Roscius le Mercer, who dwelt at the corner of North Gate Street? He is my husband—but they call him here Roscius de Oxineford—and we have lately come to London. So you live in Bread Street, I suppose, if you are a baker?"

Stephen acknowledged his official residence, mentally reserving the private one, and purposing to give Ermine a hint to confine herself for the present to Ivy Lane.

"Do come in," said Leuesa hospitably, "and let us have a chat about old friends."

And lifting up her voice she called—"Roscius!"

The mercer, whom Stephen remembered as a slim youth, presented himself in the changed character of a stout man of five-and-thirty, and warmly seconded his wife's invitation, as soon as he recognised an old acquaintance.

"I'm glad enough to hear of old friends," said Stephen, "for I haven't heard a single word since I left Oxford about any one of them. Tell me first of my brother. Is he living and in the old place?"

"Ay, and Anania too, and all the children. I don't think there have been any changes in the Castle."

"Uncle Manning and Aunt Isel?"

"Manning died three years ago, and Isel dwells now with Raven and Flemild, who have only one daughter, so they have plenty of room for her."

"Then what has become of Haimet?"

"Oh, he married Asselot, the rich daughter of old Tankard of Bicester. He lives at Bicester now. Romund and Mabel are well; they have no children, but Haimet has several."

"Both my cousins married heiresses? They have not done badly, it seems."

"N-o, they have not, in one way," said Leuesa. "But I do not think Haimet is bettered by his marriage. He seems to me to be getting very fond of money, and always to measure everything by the silver pennies it cost. That's not the true ell-wand; or I'm mistaken."

"You are not, Leuesa. I'd as soon be choked with a down pillow as have my soul all smothered up with gold. Well, and how do other folks get on?—Franna, and Turguia, and Chembel and Veka, and all the rest?"

"Turguia's gone, these five years; the rest are well—at least I don't recall any that are not."

"Is old Benefei still at the corner?"

"Ay, he is, and Rubi and Jurnet. Regina is married to Jurnet's wife's nephew, Samuel, and has a lot of children—one pretty little girl, with eyes as like Countess as they can be."

"Oh, have you any notion what is become of Countess?"

"They removed from Reading to Dorchester, I believe, and then I heard old Leo had divorced Countess, and married Deuslesalt's daughter and heir, Drua. What became of her I don't know."

"By the way, did either of you know aught of the Wise Woman of Bensington? Mother Haldane, they used to call her. She'll perhaps not be alive now, for she was an old woman eight years gone. She did me a good turn once."

"I don't know anything about her," said Leuesa.

"Ah, well, I do," answered Roscius. "I went to her when our cow was fairy-led, twelve years gone; and after that for my sister, when she had been eating chervil, and couldn't see straight before her. Ay, she was a wise woman, and helped a many folks. No, she's not alive now."

"You mean more than you say, Roscius," said Stephen, with a sudden sinking of heart. What had happened to Haldane?

"Well, you see, they ducked her for a witch."

"And killed her?" Stephen's voice was hard.

"Ay—she did not live many minutes after. She sank, though—she was no witch: though it's true, her cat was never seen afterwards, and some folks would have it he'd gone back to Sathanas."

"Then it must have been that night!" said Stephen to himself. "Did she know, that she sent us off in haste? Was that the secret she would not tell?" Aloud, he said,—"And who were 'they' that wrought that ill deed?"

"Oh, there was a great crowd at the doing of it—all the idle loons in Bensington and Dorchester: but there were two that hounded them on to the work—the Bishop's sumner Malger, and a woman: I reckon they had a grudge against her of some sort. Wigan the charcoal-burner told me of it—he brought her out, and loosed the cord that bound her."

"God pardon them as He may!" exclaimed Stephen. "She was no more a witch than you are. A gentle, harmless old woman, that healed folks with herbs and such—shame on the men that dared to harm her!"

"Ay, I don't believe there was aught bad in her. But, saints bless you!—lads are up to anything," said Roscius. "They'd drown you, or burn me, any day, just for the sake of a grand show and a flare-up."

"They're ill brought up, then," said Stephen. "I'll take good care my lads don't."

"O Stephen! have you some children?—how many?"

"Ay, two lads and three lasses. How many have you?"

"We're not so well off as you; we have only two maids. Why, Stephen, I'd forgot you were married. I must come and see your wife. But I never heard whom you did marry: was she a stranger?"

Poor Stephen was sorely puzzled what to say. On the one hand, he thought Leuesa might safely be trusted; and as Ermine had already suffered the sentence passed upon her, and the entire circumstances were forgotten by most people, it seemed as if the confession of facts might be attended by no danger. Yet he could not know with certainty that either of his old acquaintances was incorruptibly trustworthy; and if the priests came to know that one of their victims had survived the ordeal, what might they not do, in hatred and revenge? A moment's reflection, and an ejaculatory prayer, decided him to trust Leuesa. She must find out the truth if she came to see Ermine.

"No," he said slowly; "she was not a stranger."

"Why, who could it be?" responded Leuesa. "Nobody went away when you did."

"But somebody went away before I did. Leuesa, I think you are not the woman who would do an old friend an ill turn?"

"Indeed, I would not, Stephen," said she warmly. "If there be any secret, you may trust me, and my husband too; we would not harm you or yours for the world."

"I believe I may," returned Stephen. "My cousin Derette knows, but don't name it to any one else. My wife is—Ermine."

"Stephen! You don't mean it? Well, I am glad to know she got safe away! But how did you get hold of her?"

Stephen told his story.

"You may be very certain we shall not speak a word to injure Ermine," said Leuesa. "Ay, I'll come and see her, and glad I shall be. Why, Stephen, I thought more of Ermine than you knew; I called one of my little maids after her. Ermine and Derette they are. I can never forget a conversation I once had with Gerard, when he took me back to the Castle from Isel's house; I did not think so much of it at the time, but it came to me with power afterwards, when he had sealed his faith with his blood."

"Ah! there's nothing like dying, to make folks believe you," commented Roscius.

"Can't agree with you there, friend," answered Stephen with a smile. "There is one other thing, and that is living. A man may give his life in a sudden spurt of courage and enthusiasm. It is something more to see him spend his life in patient well-doing through many years. That is the harder of the two to most."

"Maybe it is," assented Roscius. "I see now why you were so anxious about old Haldane."

"Ay, we owed her no little. And I cannot but think she had some notion, poor soul! of what was coming: she was in such haste to get us off by dawn. If I had known—"

"Eh, what could you have done if you had?" responded Roscius. "Wigan told me there were hundreds in the crowd."

"Nothing, perchance," answered Stephen sadly. "Well! the good Lord knew best, and He ordered matters both for us and her."

"Wigan said he thought she had been forewarned—I know not why."

"Ay, I think some one must have given her a hint. That was why she sent us off so early."

"I say, Stephen," asked Roscius rather uneasily, "what think you did become of that cat of hers? The thing was never seen after she died— not once. It looks queer, you know."

"Does it?" said Stephen, with a little laugh.

"Why, yes! I don't want to think any ill of the poor old soul—not I, indeed: but never to be seen once afterwards—it does look queer. Do you think Sathanas took the creature?"

"Not without I am Sathanas. That terrible cat that so troubles you, Roscius, sits purring on my hearth at this very moment."

"You! Why, did you take the thing with you?"

"We did. It came away in Ermine's arms."

"Eh, Saint Frideswide be our aid! I wouldn't have touched it for a king's ransom."

"I've touched it a good few times," said Stephen, laughing, "and it never did aught worse to me than rub itself against me and mew. Why, surely, man! you're not feared of a cat?"

"No, not of a real cat; but that—"

"It is just as real a cat as any other. My children play with it every day; and if you'll bring your little maids, I'll lay you a good venison pasty that they are petting it before they've been in the house a Paternoster. Trust a girl for that! Ah, yes! that was one reason why I thought she had some fancy of what was coming—the poor soul begged us to take old Gib. He'd been her only companion for years, and she did not want him ill-used. Poor, gentle, kindly soul! Ermine will be grieved to hear of her end."

"Tell Ermine I'll come to see her," said Leuesa, "and bring the children too."

"We have a Derette as well as you," replied Stephen with a smile. "She is the baby. Our boys are Gerard and Osbert, and our elder girls Agnes and Edild—my mother's name, you know."

As Stephen opened the door of his house that evening, Gib came to meet him with erect tail.

"Well, old fellow!" said Stephen, rubbing his ears—a process to which Gib responded with loud purrs. "I have seen a man to-day who is afraid to touch you. I don't think you would do much to him—would you, now?"

"That's nice—go on!" replied Gib, purring away.

Leuesa lost no time in coming to see Ermine. She brought her two little girls, of whom the elder, aged five years, immediately fell in love with the baby, while the younger, aged three, being herself too much of a baby to regard infants with any sentiment but disdain, bestowed all her delicate attentions upon Gib. Stephen declared laughingly that he saw he should keep the pasty.

"Well, really, it does look very like a cat!" said the mercer, eyeing Gib still a little doubtfully.

"Very like, indeed," replied Stephen, laughing again. "I never saw anything that looked more like one."

"There's more than one at Oxford would like to see you, Ermine, and Stephen too," said Leuesa.

"Mother Isel would, and Derette," was Ermine's answer. "I am not so sure of any one else."

"I am sure of one else," interpolated Stephen. "It would be a perfect windfall to Anania, for she'd get talk out of it for nine times nine days. But would it be safe, think you?"

"Why not?" answered Roscius. "The Earl has nought against you, has he?"

"Oh no, he has nought against me; I settled every thing with him—went back on purpose to do so. I was thinking of Ermine. The Bishop is not the same [Note 2], but for aught I know, the sumners are."

"Only one of them: Malger went to Lincoln some two years back."

"Well, I should be glad not to meet that villain," said Stephen.

"You'll not meet him. Then as to the other matter, what could they do to her? The sentence was carried out. You can't execute a man twice."

"That's a point that does not generally rise for decision. But you see she got taken in, and that was forbidden. They were never meant to survive it, and she did."

"I don't believe any penalty could fall on her," said Roscius. "But if you like, I'll ask my cousin, who is a lawyer, what the law has to say on that matter."

"Then don't mention Ermine's name."

"I'll mention nobody's name. I shall only say that I and a friend of mine were having a chat, and talking of one thing and another, we fell a-wondering what would happen if a man were to survive a punishment intended to kill him."

"That might serve. I don't mind if you do."

The law, in 1174, was much more dependent on the personal will of the sovereign than it is now. The lawyer looked a little doubtful when asked the question.

"Why," said he, "if the prisoner had survived by apparent miracle, the chances are that he would be pardoned, as the probability would be that his innocence was thus proved by visitation of God. I once knew of such a case, where a woman was accused of murdering her husband; she held her mute of malice at her trial, and was adjudged to suffer peine forte et dure."

When a prisoner refused to plead, he was held to be "mute of malice." The peine forte et dure, which was the recognised punishment for this misdemeanour, was practically starvation to death. In earlier days it seems to have been pure starvation; but at a later period, the more refined torture was substituted of allowing the unhappy man on alternate days three mouthfuls of bread with no liquid, and three sips of water with no food, for a term which the sufferer could not be expected to survive. At a later time again, this was exchanged for heavyweights, under which he was pressed to death.

"Strange to say," the lawyer went on, "the woman survived her sentence; and this being an undoubted miracle, she received pardon to the laud of God and the honour of His glorious mother, Dame Mary. [Such a case really happened at Nottingham in 1357.] But if you were supposing a case without any such miraculous intervention—"

"Oh, we weren't thinking of miracles, any way," answered Roscius.

"Then I should say the sentence would remain in force. There is of course a faint possibility that it might not be put in force; but if the man came to me for advice, I should not counsel him to build much upon that. Especially if he happened to have an enemy."

"Well, it does not seem just, to my thinking, that a man should suffer a penalty twice over."

"Just!" repeated the lawyer, with a laugh and a shrug of his shoulders. "Were you under the impression, Cousin Roscius, that law and justice were interchangeable terms?"

"I certainly was," said Roscius.

"Then, you'd better get out of it," was the retort.

"I daren't take Ermine, after that," said Stephen, rather sorrowfully, "The only hope would be that she might be so changed, nobody would know her; and then, as my wife, she might pass unharmed But the risk seems too great."

"She's scarcely changed enough for that," replied Leuesa. "Very likely she would not be recognised by those to whom she was a comparative stranger; but such as had known her well would guess in a moment. Otherwise—"

"Then her name would tell tales," suggested Stephen.

"Oh, you might change that," said Roscius. "Call her Emma or Aymeria— folks would never think."

"And tell lies?" responded Stephen.

"Why, you'd never call that telling lies, surely?"

"It's a bit too like it to please me. Is Father Dolfin still at Saint Frideswide's?"

"Ay, he's still there, but he's growing an old man, and does not get outside much now. He has resigned Saint Aldate's."

"Then that settles it. He'd know."

"But he's not an unkindly man, Stephen."

"No, he isn't. But he's a priest. And maybe the priest might be stronger than the man. Let's keep on the safe side."

"Let us wait," said Ermine quietly.

"I don't see how waiting is to help you, unless you wait till every body is dead and buried—and it won't be much good going then."

"Perhaps we may have to wait for the Better Country. There will be no sumners and sentences there."

"But are you sure of knowing folks there?"

"Saint Paul would scarcely have anticipated meeting his friends with joy in the resurrection if they were not to know each other when they met. There are many passages in Scripture which make it very plain that we shall know each other."

"Are you so sure of getting there yourself?" was the query put by Roscius, with raised eyebrows.

"I am quite sure," was Ermine's calm answer, "because Christ is there, and I am a part of Christ. He wills that His people shall be with Him where He is."

"But does not holy Church teach rather different?" [Note 3.]

Stephen would fain have turned off the question. But it was answered as calmly as before.

"Holy Church is built on Christ our Lord. She cannot therefore teach contrary to Him, though we may misunderstand either."

Roscius was satisfied. He had not, however, the least idea that by that vague term "holy Church," while he meant a handful of priests and bishops, Ermine meant the elect of God, for whom His words settle every question, and who are not apt to trouble themselves for the contradictions either of priests or critics. "For the world passeth away, and the lust thereof"—the pleasures, the opinions, the prejudices of the world—"but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever."

The times of Henry Second knew neither post-offices nor carriers. When a man wanted to send a parcel anywhere, he was obliged to carry it himself or send a servant to do so, if he could not find some acquaintance journeying in that direction who would save him the trouble.

A few weeks after Stephen had come to the conclusion that he could not take Ermine to Oxford, he was passing down Bread Street to his shop early one morning, when Odinel hailed him from the door.

"Hi, Stephen! Just turn in here a minute, will you?—you don't happen to be going or sending up into the shires, do you, these next few days?"

"Which of the shires?" inquired Stephen, without committing himself.

"Well, it's Abingdon I want to send to—but if I could get my goods carried as far as Wallingford, I dare say I could make shift to have them forwarded."

"Would Oxford suit you equally well?"

"Ay, as well or better."

Stephen stood softly whistling for a moment. He might work the two things together—might at least pay a visit to Derette, and learn from her how far it was safe to go on. He felt that Anania was the chief danger; Osbert would placidly accept as much or as little as he chose to tell, and Isel, if she asked questions, might be easily turned aside from the path. Could he be sure that Anania was out of the way, he thought he would not hesitate to go himself, though he no longer dared to contemplate taking Ermine.

"Well, I might, mayhap, be going in that direction afore long,—I can't just say till I see how things shape themselves. If I can, I'll let you know in a few days."

"All right! I'm in no hurry to a week or two."

Stephen meditated on the subject in the intervals of superintendence of his oven, and serving out wassel and cocket, with the result that when evening came, he was almost determined to go, if Ermine found no good reasons to the contrary. He consulted her when he went home, for she was not at the shop that day. She looked grave at first, but her confidence in Stephen's discretion was great, and she made no serious objection. No sooner, however, did the children hear of such a possibility as their father's visiting the country, than they all, down to three-year-old Edild, sent in petitions to be allowed to accompany him.

"Couldn't be thought of!" was Stephen's decided though good-tempered answer: and the petitioners succumbed with a look of disappointment.

"I might perchance have taken Gerard," Stephen allowed to his wife, out of the boy's hearing: "but to tell truth, I'm afraid of Anania's hearing his name—though, as like as not, she'll question me on the names of all the children, and who they were called after, and why we selected them, and if each were your choice or mine."

"Better not, I think," said Ermine, with a smile. "I almost wish I could be hidden behind a curtain, to hear your talk with her."

Stephen laughed. "Well, I won't deny that I rather enjoy putting spokes in her wheels," said he.

The next morning he told Odinel to make up his goods, and he would carry them to Oxford on the following Monday.

Odinel's parcel proved neither bulky nor heavy. Instead of requiring a sumpter-mule to carry it, it could readily be strapped at the back of Stephen's saddle, while the still smaller package of his own necessaries went in front. He set out about four o'clock on a spring morning, joining himself for the sake of safety to the convoy of travellers who started from the Black Bull in the Poultry, and arrived at the East Gate of Oxford before dark, on the Tuesday evening. His first care was to commit Odinel's goods to the safe care of mine host of the Blue Boar [Note 4] in Fish Street, as had been arranged. Here he supped on fried fish, rye bread, and cheese; and having shared the "grace-cup" of a fellow-traveller, set off for Saint John's anchorhold. A young woman in semi-conventual dress left the door just as he came up. Stephen doffed his cap as he asked her—"I pray you, are you the maid of the Lady Derette?"

"I am," was the reply. "Do you wish speech of her?"

"Would you beseech her to let me have a word with her at the casement?"

The girl turned back into the anchorhold, and the next minute the casement was opened, and the comely, pleasant face of Derette appeared behind it. She looked a little older, but otherwise unaltered.

There was nothing unusual in Stephen's request. Anchorites lived on alms, and were also visited to desire their prayers. The two ideas likely to occur to the maid as the object of Stephen's visit were therefore either a present to be offered, or intercession to be asked and probably purchased.

"Christ save you, Lady!" said Stephen to his cousin. "Do you know me?"

"Why, is it Stephen? Are you come back? I am glad to see you."

When the natural curiosity and interest of each was somewhat satisfied, Stephen asked Derette's advice as to going further.

"You may safely go to see Mother," said she, "if you can be sure of your own tongue; for you will not meet Anania there. She has dislocated her ankle, and is lying in bed."

"Poor soul! It seems a shame to say I'm glad to hear it; but really I should like to avoid her at Aunt Isel's, and to be able to come away at my own time from the Lodge."

"You have the chance of both just now."

Stephen thought he would get the worse interview over first. He accordingly went straight on into Civil School Lane, which ran right across the north portion of Christ Church, coming out just above Saint Aldate's, pursued his way forward by Pennyfarthing Street, and turning up a few yards of Castle Street, found himself at the drawbridge leading to the porter's lodge where his brother lived. There were voices inside the Lodge; and Stephen paused for a moment before lifting the latch.

"Oh dear, dear!" said a querulous voice, which he recognised as that of Anania, "I never thought to be laid by the heels like this!—not a soul coming in to see a body, and those children that ungovernable—Gilbert, get off that ladder! and Selis, put the pitchfork down this minute! Not a bit of news any where, and if there were, not a creature coming in to tell one of it! Eline, let those buttons alone, or I'll be after—Oh deary dear, I can't!"

Stephen lifted the latch and looked in. Anania lay on a comfortable couch, drawn up by the fire; and at a safe distance from it, her four children were running riot—turning out all her treasures, inspecting, trying on, and occasionally breaking them—knowing themselves to be safe from any worse penalty than a scolding, for which evidently they cared nothing.

"You seem to want a bit of help this afternoon," suggested Stephen coolly, collaring Selis, from whom he took the pitchfork, and then lifting Gilbert off the ladder, to the extreme disapprobation of both those young gentlemen, as they showed by kicks and angry screams. "Come, now, be quiet, lads: one can't hear one's self speak."

"Stephen! is it you?" cried Anania incredulously, trying to lift herself to see him better, and sinking back with a groan.

"Looks rather like me, doesn't it? I am sorry to find you suffering, Sister."

"I've suffered worse than any martyr in the Calendar, Stephen!—and those children don't care two straws for me. Nobody knows what I've gone through. Are you come home for good? Oh dear, this pain!"

"No, only for a look at you. I had a little business to bring me this way. How is Osbert?"

"He's well enough to have never a bit of sympathy for me. Where are you living, Stephen, and what do you do now?"

"Oh, up London way; I'm a baker. Have you poulticed that foot, Anania?"

"I've done all sorts of things to it, and it's never—Julian, if you touch that clasp, I declare I'll—Are you married, Stephen?"

"Married, and have one more trouble than you," answered Stephen laughingly, as he took the clasp from his youthful and inquisitive niece; "but my children are not troublesome, I am thankful to say. I was going to tell you that marsh-mallows makes one of the finest poultices you can have. Pluck it when Jupiter is in the ascendant, and the moon on the wane, and you'll find it first-rate for easing that foot of yours.—Gilbert, I heard thy mother tell thee not to go up the ladder."

"Well, what if she did?" demanded Gilbert sulkily. "She's only a woman."

"Then she must be obeyed," said Stephen.

"But who did you marry, for I never—Oh deary me, but it does sting!"

"Now, Anania, I'll just go to the market and get you some marsh mallow; Selis will come with me to carry it. I've to see Aunt Isel yet, and plenty more. Come, Selis."

"Ha, chetife!—you've no sooner come than you're off again! Who did you marry? That's what I want to know."

"The sooner you get that poultice on the better. I may look in again, if I have time. If not, you'll tell Osbert I've been, and all's well with me."

Stephen shut the door along with his last word, disregarding Anania's parting cry of—"But you haven't told me who your wife is!" and marched Selis off to the market, where he laded him with marsh mallow, and sent him home with strict injunctions not to drop it by the way. Then, laughing to himself at the style wherein he had disposed of Anania, he turned off to Turlgate Street (now the Turl) where Raven Soclin lived.

The first person whom he saw there was his cousin Flemild.

"Why, Stephen, this is an unexpected pleasure!" she said warmly. "Mother, here's Cousin Stephen come."

"I'm glad to see thee, lad," responded Isel: and the usual questions followed as to his home and calling. But to Stephen's great satisfaction, though Isel expressed her hope that he had a good wife, nobody asked for her name. The reason was that they all took it for granted she must be a stranger to them; and when they had once satisfied themselves that he was doing well, and had learnt such details as his present calling, the number of his family, and so forth, they seemed more eager to impart information than to obtain it. At their request, Stephen promised to sleep there, and then went out to pay a visit to Romund and Mabel, which proved to be of a very formal and uninteresting nature. He had returned to Turlgate Street, but they had not yet gone to rest, when Osbert lifted the latch.

"So you're real, are you?" said he, laughing to his brother. "Anania couldn't tell me if you were or not; she said she rather thought she'd been dreaming,—more by reason that you did not tarry a minute, and she could not get an answer to one question, though she asked you three times."

Stephen too well knew what that question was to ask for a repetition of it "Nay, I tarried several minutes," said he; "but I went off to get some marsh mallow for a poultice for the poor soul; she seemed in much pain. I hope Selis took it home all right? Has she got it on?"

"I think she has," said Osbert. "But she wants you very badly to go back and tell her a lot more news."

"Well, I'll see," replied Stephen; "I scarcely think I can. But if she wants news, you tell her I've heard say women's head-kerchiefs are to be worn smaller, and tied under the chin; that's a bit of news that'll take her fancy."

"That'll do for a while," answered Osbert; "but what she wants to know most is your wife's name and all the children's."

"Oh, is that it?" said Stephen coolly. "Then you may tell her one of the children is named after you, and another for our mother; and we have an Agnes and a Derette: and if she wants to know the cat's name too—"

Osbert roared. "Oh, let's have the cat's name, by all means," said he; and Stephen gravely informed him that it was Gib.

As Agnes was at that time one of the commonest names in England, about as universal as Mary or Elizabeth now, Stephen felt himself pretty safe in giving it; but the name of his eldest son he did not mention.

"Well, I'd better go home before I forget them," said Osbert. "Let's see—Osbert, Edild, Agnes, and Derette—and the cat is Gib. I think I shall remember. But I haven't had your wife's."

"I'll walk back with you," said Stephen, evading the query; and they went out together.

"Stephen, lad," said Osbert, when they had left the house, "I've a notion thou dost not want to tell thy wife's name. Is it true, or it's only my fancy?"

"Have you?" responded Stephen shortly.

"Ay, I have; and if it be thus, say so, but don't tell me what it is. It's nought to me; so long as she makes thee a good wife I care nought who she is; but if I know nothing, I can say nothing. Only, if I knew thou wouldst as lief hold thy peace o'er it, I would not ask thee again."

"She is the best wife and the best woman that ever breathed," replied Stephen earnestly: "and you are right, old man—I don't want to tell it."

"Then keep thine own counsel," answered his brother. "Farewell, and God speed thee!"

Stephen turned back, and Osbert stood for a moment looking after him. "If I thought it possible," said the porter to himself,—"but I don't see how it could be any way—I should guess that the name of Stephen's wife began and ended with an e. I am sure he was set on her once—and that would account for any reluctance to name her: but I don't see how it could be. Well! it doesn't matter to me. It's a queer world this."

With which profoundly original and philosophical remark, Osbert turned round and went home.

"Well, what is it?" cried Anania, the moment he entered.

"Let me unlade my brains," said Osbert, "for I'm like a basket full of apples; and if they are not carefully taken out, they'll be bruised and good for nought. Stephen's children are called Edild, Agnes, Osbert, and Derette—"

"But his wife! it's his wife I want to know about."

"Dear, now! I don't think he told me that," said Osbert with lamb-like innocence, as if it had only just occurred to him.

"Why, that was what you went for, stupid!"

"Well, to be sure!" returned Osbert in meek astonishment, which he acted to perfection. "He told me the cat's name, if that will suit you instead."

"I wish the cat were inside you this minute!" screamed Anania.

"Thank you for your kind wishes," replied Osbert with placid amiability. "I'm not sure the cat would."

"Was there ever any mortal thing in this world so aggravating as a man?" demanded Anania, in tones which were not placid by any means. "Went down to Kepeharme Lane to find something out, and came back knowing ne'er a word about it! Do you think you've any brains, you horrid tease?"

"Can't say: never saw them," answered Osbert sweetly.

"I wonder if you have your match in the county!"

"Oh, I don't think there's any doubt of that."

"Well, at any rate, first thing to-morrow morning, if you please, back you go and ask him. And mind you don't let him slip through your fingers this time. He's as bad as an eel for that."

"First thing! I can't, Anania. The Earl has sent word that he means to fly the new hawks at five o'clock to-morrow morning."

"Bother the—hawks! Couldn't you go again to-night?"

"No, they'll be gone to bed by now. Why, wife, what on earth does it matter to thee?"

Anania's reply to this query was so sharp a snarl that Osbert let her alone thereafter.

The next morning, when released from his duties, he went again to Kepeharme Lane—to hear that Stephen had set out on his return journey half-an-hour before. "Well, now, it's plain to me what that means!" announced Anania solemnly, when this distressing fact was communicated to her. "He's married somebody he's ashamed of—some low creature, quite beneath him, whom he doesn't care to own. That must be the explanation. She's no better than she should be; take my word for it!"

"That's quite possible," said Osbert drily. "There's another or two of us in that predicament."

Anania flounced over on her couch, thereby making herself groan.

"You are, and no mistake!" she growled.

"Father Vincent said, when he married us, that you and I were thenceforth one, my dearest!" was the pleasing response.

"What in the name of wonder I ever wished to marry you for—!"

"I will leave you to consider it, my darling, and tell me when I come back," said Osbert, shutting the door and whistling the Agnus as he went up Castle Street.

"Well, if you aren't the worst, wickedest, aggravatingest man that ever worrited a poor helpless woman," commented Anania, as she turned on her uneasy couch, "my new boots are made of pear jelly!"

But it did not occur to her to inquire of what the woman was made who habitually tormented that easy-tempered man, nor how much happier her home might have been had she learnt to bridle her own irritating tongue.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. Close Roll, 32 Henry Third. About 5 pence per loaf according to modern value.

Note 2. The Bishop of Lincoln who sat on the Council of Oxford was Robert de Chesney. He died on January 26th, 1168, and was succeeded by the King's natural son, Geoffrey Plantagenet, a child of only nine years of age. Such were the irregularities in the "apostolical succession" during the "ages of faith!"

Note 3. Even Wycliffe taught that no man could know whether he were elected to salvation or not.

Note 4. The Blue Boar in Saint Aldate's Street really belongs to a later date than this.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

REUNITED.

"With mercy and with judgment My web of time He wove, And ay the dews of sorrow Were lustred with His love: I'll bless the hand that guided, I'll bless the heart that planned, When throned where glory dwelleth, In Immanuel's land."

Mrs Cousins.

It was a very tiny house in Tower Street, at the corner of Mark Lane. There were but two rooms—above and below, as in Isel's house, but these were smaller than hers, and the lower chamber was made smaller still by a panel screen dividing it in two unequal parts.

The front division, which was a very little one, was a jeweller's shop; the back was larger, and was the family living-room. In it to-night the family were sitting, for business hours were over, and the shop was closed.

The family had a singular appearance. It consisted of four persons, and these were derived from three orders of the animate creation. Two were human. The third was an aged starling, for whose convenience a wicker cage hung in one corner; but the owner was hopping in perfect freedom about the hearth, and occasionally varying that exercise by pausing to give a mischievous peck to the tail of the fourth, a very large white and tan dog. The dog appeared so familiarised with this treatment as scarcely to notice it, unless the starling gave a harder peck than usual, when he merely moved his tail out of its way, accompanying the action in specially severe cases by the most subdued of growls, an action which seemed to afford great amusement to that impertinent and irrepressible fowl.

The relationship of the human inhabitants of the little chamber would not have been easy to guess. The elder, seated on a cushioned bench by the fire, was one whose apparent age was forty or perhaps rather more. She was a woman of extremely dark complexion, her hair jet-black, her eyes scarcely lighter—a woman who had once been very handsome, and whose lost youth and beauty now and then seemed to flash back into her face, when eagerness, anger, or any other strong feeling lent animation to her features. The other was a young man about half her years, and as unlike her as he well could be. His long flaxen hair waved over a brow as white as hers was dark, and his eyes were a light clear blue. He sat on a stool in front of the fire, gazing into the charred wooden embers with intent fixed eyes. The woman had glanced at him several times, but neither had spoken for above half an hour. Now she broke the silence.

"Well, Ralph?"

"Well, Mother?" echoed the youth with a smile. Both spoke in German—a language then as unfamiliar in England as Persian.

"What are you thinking about so intently?"

"Life," was the ready but unexpected answer.

"Past, present, future?"

"Past and future—hardly present. The past chiefly—the long ago."

The woman moved uneasily, but did not answer.

"Mother, if I am of age to-day, I think I have the right to ask you a few questions. Do you accord it?"

"Ah!" she said, with a deep intonation. "I knew it would come some time. Well! what is to be must be. Speak, my son."

The young man laid his hand affectionately on hers.

"Had it not better come?" he said. "You would not prefer that I asked my questions of others than yourself, nor that I shut them in my own soul, and fretted my heart out, trying to find the answer."

"I should prefer any suffering rather than the loss of thy love and confidence, my Ralph," she answered tenderly. "To the young, it is easy to look back, for they have only just left the flowery garden. To the old, it may be so, when there is only a little way to go, and they will then be gathered to their fathers. But half-way through the long journey—with all the graves behind, and the dreary stretch of trackless heath before—Speak thy will, Ralph."

"Forgive me if I pain you, Mother. I feel as if I must speak, and something has happened to-day which bids me do it now."

It was evident that these words startled and discomposed the mother. She had been leaning back rather wearily in the corner of the bench, as one resting from bodily strain. Now she sat up, the rich crimson mantling her dark cheek.

"What! Hast thou seen—hast thou heard something?"

"I have seen," answered Ralph slowly, as if almost unwilling to say it, "a face from the long ago. At any rate, a face which carried my memory thither."

"Whose?" she said, almost in tones of alarm.

"I cannot tell you. Let me make it as plain as I can. You may be able to piece the disjointed strands together, when I cannot."

"Go on," she said, settling herself to listen.

"You know, Mother," he began, "that I have always known and remembered one thing from my past. I know you are not my real mother. Kindest and truest and dearest of mothers and friends you have been to me; my true mother, whoever and wherever she may be, could have loved and tended me no better than you. That much I know: but as to other matters my recollection is far more uncertain. Some persons and things I recall clearly; others are mixed together, and here and there, as if in a dream, some person, or more frequently some action of such a person, stands out vividly, like a picture, from the general haze. Now, for instance, I can remember that there was somebody called 'Mother Isel': but whether she were my mother, or yours, or who she was, that I do not know. Again, I recollect a man, who must have been rather stern to my childish freaks, I suppose, for he brings with him a sense of fear. This man does not come into my life till I was some few years old; there is another whom I remember better, an older friend, a man with light hair and grave, kindly blue eyes. There are some girls, too, but I cannot clearly recall them—they seem mixed together in my memory, though the house in which I and they lived I recollect perfectly. But I do not know how it is—I never see you there. I clearly recall a big book, which the man with the blue eyes seems to be constantly reading: and when he reads, a woman sits by him with a blue check apron, and I sit on her lap. Perhaps such a thing happened only once, but it appears to me as if I can remember it often and often. There is another man whose face I recall—I doubt if he lived in the house; I think he came in now and then: a man with brown hair and a pleasant, lively face, who often laughed and had many a merry saying. I cannot certainly remember any one else connected with that house, except one other—a woman: a woman with a horrible chattering tongue, who often left people in tears or very cross: a woman whom I don't like at all."

"And after, Ralph?" suggested the mother in a low voice, when the young man paused.

"After? Ah, Mother, that is harder to remember still. A great tumult, cross voices, a sea of faces which all looked angry and terrified me, and then it suddenly changes like a dream to a great lonely expanse of shivering snow: and I and some others—whom, I know not—wander about in it—for centuries, as it appears to me. Then comes a blank, and then— you."

"You remember better than I should have expected as to some things: others worse. Can you recollect no name save 'Mother Isel'?"

"I can, but I don't know whose they are. I can hear somebody call from the upper chamber—'Gerard, is that you?' and the pleasant-faced man says, 'Tell Ermine' something. That is what made me ask you, Mother. I met a man to-day in Cheapside who looked hard at me, and who made me think both of that pleasant-faced man, and also of the stern man; and as I had to wait for a cart to pass, another man and woman came and spoke to him, and he said to the woman, 'Well, when are you coming to see Ermine?' The face, and his curious, puzzled look at me, and the name, carried me back all at once to that house and the people there. He looked as if he thought he ought to know me, and could not tell exactly who I was. And just as I came away, I fancied I heard another word or two, spoken low as if not for me or somebody to hear—something about—'like him and Agnes too.' I wonder if I ever knew any one called Agnes? I have a faint impression that I did. Can you tell me, Mother?"

"I will tell thee, Ralph. But answer me first. Wert thou always called Ralph?"

"I cannot tell, Mother," replied the youth, with an interested look. "I fancy, somehow, that I once used to be called something not that exactly, and yet very like it. I have tried to recover it, and cannot. Was it some pet name used by somebody?"

"No. It was your own name—which Ralph is not."

"O Mother! what was it?"

"Wait a moment. Did you ever hear of any one called—Countess?"

She brought out the second name with hesitation, as if she spoke it unwillingly. The youth shook his head.

"Let that pass."

"But who was it, Mother?"

"Never mind who it was. No relative of yours—Rudolph."

"Rudolph!" The young man sprang to his feet. "That was my name! I know it was, but I never could get hold of it. I shall not forget it again."

"Do not forget it again. But let it be for ourselves only. To the world outside you are still 'Ralph.' It is wiser."