"Didst get a poem unto thy sweet eyes, _Milly_?" saith _Edith_, laughing.

"Nay," said I, "mine eyes be not so sweet as thine."

"Did he ask at thee if _Father_ were at home?"

"Ay, he asked that."

Herein told I no falsehood, for that day he said not a word touching mine eyes.

Then Cousin _Bess_ looks up. Cousin _Bess_ was by, but not Aunt _Joyce_.

"What manner of man, my la.s.ses?" saith she.

I left _Edith_ to make answer.

"Why," saith she, "I reckon he might be ten years younger than _Father_, or may-be more: and--"

"Oh, not a young man, then?" saith _Mother_, as though she were fain it so were.

"Oh, nay," quoth _Edith_: "but well-favoured, and of a fair hair and beard."

"And clad of a dark green velvet jerkin," saith Cousin _Bess_, "and tawny hose, with a rare white feather in 's velvet bonnet?"

"That is he," saith _Edith_.

"Good lack, then!"

Cousin _Bess_ makes answer, "but he up to me only yester-morrow on the _Keswick_ road, as I come back from _Isaac's_. My word, but he doth desire for to see Sir _Aubrey_ some, for he asked at us all three if he were at home."

"Was he a man thou shouldest feel to trust, _Bess_?" asks _Mother_.

"Trust!" saith she. "I'd none trust yon dandified companion, not for to sell a sucking-pig."

Dear heart, but what queer things doth she say at times! I would Cousin _Bess_ were somewhat more civiler. To think of a gentleman such as he is, a-selling of pigs! Yet I must say I was not o'er well pleased to hear of his complimenting of _Edith_: though, 'tis true, that was ere he had seen me.

"What like is he, _Bess_?" saith _Mother_. "I would know the thought he gave to thee."

"Marry, the first were that he was like to have no wife, or she should have amended a corner of his rare slashed sleeve, that was ravelling forth o' the st.i.tching," saith she. "And the second were, that he were like the folk in this vicinage, with his golden hair and grey eyen. And the third, that he were not, for that his speech was not of these parts.

And the fourth, that his satin slashed sleeves and his silver buckles of his shoes must have cost him a pretty penny. And the last, that I'd be fain to see the back of him."

"Any more betwixt, _Cousin_?" saith _Edith_, laughing.

"Eh, there was a cart-load betwixt," saith she. "I mattered him nought, I warrant you."

"Well, neither did I, o'er much," saith _Edith_.

Dear heart, thought I, but where were their eyes, both twain, that they saw not the lovesomeness and gentilesse of that my gallant _Protection_?

But as for Cousin _Bess_, she never had no high fantasies. All her likings be what the _French_ call _bourgeois_. But I was something surprised that _Edith_ should make no count of him. I marvel if she meant the same.

"Well, there must needs be some blunder," saith _Mother_, when we had sat silent a while: "for I never knew no man of that name, nor no gentleman of _Cornwall_, to boot."

"May-be he minds you, _Mother_, though you knew not him," quoth _Edith_.

"Soothly," saith she, "there were knights in the Court, whose names I knew not: but if they saw me so much as thrice, methinks that were all-- and never spake word unto me."

"See you now, Cousin _Lettice_," saith _Bess_, "if this man wanted somewhat of you, he'd be fain enough to make out that he had known you any way he might."

"Ay, very like," saith _Mother_.

"And if he come up to the door, like an honest companion, and desire speech of Sir _Aubrey_, well, he may be a decent man, for all his slashed sleeves and flying feathers: but if not so, then I write him down no better than he should be, though what he is after it pa.s.seth my wit to see."

"I do believe," quoth _Edith_, a-laughing, "that Cousin _Bess_ hates every thing that flies. What with Dr _Meade's_ surplice, and Sir _Edwin's_ long feather--verily, I would marvel what shall come a-flying next."

"Nay, my la.s.s, I love the song-birds as well as any," saith Cousin _Bess_: "'tis only I am not compatient with matter flying that is not meant to fly. If G.o.d Almighty had meant men and women to fly, He'd have put wings on them. And I never can see why men should deck themselves out o' birds' feathers, without they be poor savages that take coloured beads to be worth so much as gold angels. And as for yon surplice, 'tis a rag o' _Popery_--that's what it is: and I'd as lief tell Dr _Meade_ so as an other man. I did tell Mistress _Meade_ so, t' other day: but, poor soul! she could not see it a whit. 'Twas but a decent garment that the priest must needs bear, and such like. And 'Mistress _Meade_,' says I, 'I'll tell you what it is,' says I: 'you are none grounded well in _Hebrews_,' says I. 'Either Dr _Meade's_ no priest, or else the Lord isn't,' says I: 'so you may pick and choose,' says I. Eh dear! but she looked on me as if I'd spake some ill words o' the Queen's Majesty--not a bit less. And 'Mistress _Wolvercot_,' says she, 'what ever do you mean?' says she. 'Well, Mistress _Meade_,' says I, 'that's what I mean--that there can be no _Christian_ priests so long as _Christ_ our Lord is alive: so if Dr _Meade's_ a priest, He must be dead. And if so,' says I, 'why then, I don't see how there can be no _Christians_ of no sort, priests or no,' says I. 'Why, Mistress _Wolvercot_!' says she, 'you must have lost your wits.' 'Well,' says I, 'some folks has: but I don't rightly think I'm one,'--and so home I came."

_Edith_ was rarely taken, and laughed merrily. For me, I was so glad to see the talk win round to Mistress _Meade_, that I was fain to join.

"Thou art right, _Bess_," saith _Mother_.

"Why," saith she, "I'm with _Paul_: and he's good company enough for me, though may-be, being but a tent-maker by trade, he'd scarce be meet for Dr _Meade_. I thought we'd done with bishops and priests and such like, I can tell you, when the Church were reformed: but, eh dear!

they're a coming up again every bit as bad as them aforetime. I cannot see why they kept no bishops. Lawn sleeves, forsooth! and rochets! and ca.s.socks! and them square caps,--they're uncommon like the Beast! I make no count of 'em."

"And rochets can fly!" cries _Edith_ merrily.

"Why, Cousin _Bess_," said I, "you shall be a _Brownist_ in a week or twain."

"Nay, I'll be ruled by the law: but I reckon I may call out if it pinches," saith she.

So, with mirth, we ended the matter: and thankful was I when the talk were o'er.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XIX.

I do keep my book right needfully locked up, for I would not for all the world that _Nell_ nor _Edith_ should read this last fortnight. Yester even, just as it grew to dusk, met I with my _Protection_ outside the garden door, that would fain win me to meet with him some whither on the hills, where (said he) we might talk more freely. But so feared was I to vex _Father_ and _Mother_ that this I did deny, though I could see it vexed him, and it went to mine heart to do thus. And he asked at me if I loved him not, and did very hard press me to say that I would love him: for he saith he loveth me better than all the world. Yet that would I not fully grant him, but plagued him a bit thereon. 'Tis rare fun plaguing a man. But methought I would try this even if I could not wring a fashion of consent out of _Father_, without his knowing the same: so when none was there but he and I and _Moses_, quoth I--

"_Father_, is it ever wrong to love any?"

"'Love is of G.o.d,'" he made answer. "Surely no."

And therewith should I have been content, and flattered me that I had _Father's_ a.s.sent to the loving of my _Protection_: but as ill luck would have it, he, that was going forth of the chamber, tarried, with the door in his hand, to say--

"But mind that it be very love, my maid. That is not love, but unlove, which will help a friend to break G.o.d's commandments."

I had liefer he had let that last alone. It sticketh in my throat somewhat. Yet have I _Father's_ consent to loving: and surely none need break G.o.d's commandments because they love each other. 'Tis no breaking thereof for me to meet and talk with Sir _Edwin_--of that am I as certain as that my name is _Milisent_. And I have not told a single lie about it, sithence my good _Protection_ revealed in mine ear the right way not to tell lies: namely, should _Mother_ ask me, "_Milly_, hast thou seen again that gentleman?" that I should say out loud, "No, _Mother_,"--and whisper to myself, under my breath, "this morrow,"--the which should make it perfectly true. And right glad was I to hear of this most neat and delicate way of saving the truth, and yet not uttering your secrets.

SELWICK HALL, NOVEMBER YE XXII.

If Mistress _Helena Louvaine_ could ever hold her peace from saying just the very matter that I would give her a broad shilling to be quiet on!

Here, now, this even, when all we were sat in hall, what should she begin with, but--

"_Father_, there is a thing I would ask at you."