"What, then?"

"Mean you to show this also to the young gentleman that is at Bidford?"

"And wherefore not, good Prue? He hath seen so much of the story, 'twere a pity he should not have the rest. And what a small kindness--the loan but for an hour or two; and I need not even see him, for I have but to leave it at my grandmother's cottage. And if you heard what he says of it--and how grateful he is: marry, it all lies in this, sweet Prue, that you have not seen him, else would you be willing enough to do him so small a favor."

By this time Prudence had lit the candles; and presently they made their way up-stairs to her own room.

"And surely," said Judith, as her gentle gossip was arranging the ma.n.u.script, "the story will all end well, and merrily for the sweet maiden, seeing how powerful her father is? Will he not compel all things to her happiness--he that can raise storms, and that has messengers to fly round the world for him?"

"And yet he spoke but harshly to the young man when last we saw them,"

Prudence said. "Why, what's this?"

She had run her eye down the first page; and now she began reading:

"'_Enter_ FERDINAND _bearing a log_.

_Ferdinand._ There be some sports are painful, and their labor Delight in them sets off. This my mean task Would be as heavy to me as odious, but The mistress which I serve quickens what's dead, And makes my labors pleasures. Oh, she is Ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed; And he's composed of harshness. I must remove Some thousands of these logs and pile them up, Upon a sore injunction. My sweet mistress Weeps when she sees me work; and says such baseness Had never like executor.'"

Judith's face had gradually fallen.

"Why, 'tis cruel," said she; "and 'tis cruel of my father to put such pain on the sweet prince, that is so gentle, and so unfortunate withal."

But Prudence continued the reading:

"'_Enter_ MIRANDA.

_Miranda._ Alas, now, pray you, Work not so hard: I would the lightning had Burnt up those logs, that you are enjoined to pile!

Pray, set it down and rest you; when this burns, 'Twill weep for having wearied you. My father Is hard at study; pray, now, rest yourself; He's safe for these three hours.

_Ferdinand._ O most dear mistress, The sun will set before I shall discharge What I must strive to do.

_Miranda._ If you'll sit down, I'll bear your logs the while: pray give me that-- I'll carry it to the pile.'"

At this point Judith's eyes grew proud and grateful (as though Miranda had done some brave thing), but she did not speak.

"'_Ferdinand._ No, precious creature: I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, Than you should such dishonor undergo, While I sit lazy by.

_Miranda._ You look wearily.

_Ferdinand._ No, n.o.ble mistress; 'tis fresh morning with me, When you are by at night. I do beseech you (Chiefly that I may set it in my prayers), What is your name?

_Miranda._ Miranda.--O my father, I have broke your hest to say so!

_Ferdinand._ Admired Miranda!

Indeed, the top of admiration; worth What's dearest to the world! Full many a lady I have eyed with best regard; and many a time The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear; for several virtues Have I liked several women; never any With so full soul but some defect in her Did quarrel with the n.o.blest grace she owed, And put it to the foil. But you, O you, So perfect and so peerless, are created Of every creature's best!

_Miranda._ I do not know One of my s.e.x: no woman's face remember, Save, from my gla.s.s, mine own; nor have I seen More that I may call men than you, good friend, And my dear father; how features are abroad, I am skill-less of; but, by my modesty (The jewel in my dower), I would not wish Any companion in the world but you; Nor can imagination form a shape, Besides yourself, to like of: But I prattle Something too wildly, and my father's precepts I therein do forget.'"

"Nay, is she not fair and modest!" Judith exclaimed--but apart; and, as the reading proceeded, she began to think of how Master Leofric Hope would regard this maiden. Would he not judge her to be right gentle, and timid, and yet womanly withal, and frank in her confiding? And he--supposing that he were the young prince--what would he think of such a one? Was it too submissive that she should offer to carry the logs?

Ought she to so openly confess that she would fain have him to be her companion? And then, as Judith was thus considering, this was what she heard, in Prudence's gentle voice:

"'_Miranda._ Do you love me?

_Ferdinand._ O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound, And crown what I profess with kind event, If I speak true; if hollowly, invert What best is boded me, to mischief! I, Beyond all limit of what else i' the world, Do love, prize, honor you.

_Miranda._ I am a fool To weep at what I am glad of.

_Ferdinand._ Wherefore weep you?

_Miranda._ At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer What I desire to give; and much less take What I shall die to want: But this is trifling; And all the more it seeks to hide itself, The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!

And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!

I am your wife, if you will marry me; If not, I'll die your maid; to be your fellow You may deny me; but I'll be your servant, Whether you will or no.

_Ferdinand._ My mistress, dearest; And I thus humble ever.

_Miranda._ My husband, then?

_Ferdinand._ Ay, with a heart as willing As bondage e'er of freedom; here's my hand.

_Miranda._ And mine, with my heart in't; and now farewell, Till half an hour hence.

_Ferdinand._ A thousand thousand!'"

She clapped her hands and laughed, in delight and triumph.

"Why, sure her father will relent," she cried.

"But, Judith, Judith, stay," Prudence said, quickly, and with scarce less gladness. "'Tis so set down; for this is what her father says:

'So glad of this as they I cannot be, Who are surprised withal; but by rejoicing At nothing can be more.'

Nay, I take it he will soon explain to us why he was so harsh with the young prince--perchance to try his constancy?"

Well, after that the reading went on as far as the sheets that Judith had brought; but ever her mind was returning to the scene between the two lovers, and speculating as to how Leofric Hope would look upon it.

She had no resentment against Ben Jonson now; her heart was full of a.s.surance and triumph, and was therefore generous. Her only vexation was that the night must intervene before there could be a chance of the young London gentleman calling at the cottage; and she looked forward to the possibility of seeing him some time or other with the determination to be more demure than ever. She would not expect him to praise this play. Perchance 'twas good enough for simple Warwickshire folk; but the London wits might consider it of the vulgar kind? And she laughed to herself at thinking how awkward his protests would be if she ventured to hint anything in that direction.

Prudence put the sheets carefully together again.

"Judith, Judith," she said, with a quiet smile, "you lead me far astray. I ought to find such things wicked and horrible to the ear; but perchance 'tis because I know your father, and see him from day to day, that I find them innocent enough. They seem to rest the mind when one is sorrowful."

"Beware of them, good Prue; they are the devil himself come in the guise of an angel to s.n.a.t.c.h thee away. Nay, but, sweetheart, why should you be sorrowful?"

"There is Martha Hodgson," said she, simply, "and her children, nigh to starving; and I cannot ask Julius for more----"

Judith's purse was out in an instant.

"Why," said she, "my father did not use half of what I gave him for the knife he bought at Warwick--marry, I guess he paid for it mostly himself; but what there is here you shall have."

And she emptied the contents on to the table, and pushed them over to her friend.