, clean towel as tenderly as if he had
been the lad's own mother. And having dried him thoroughly, he rubbed
him with a waxy ointment that smelled of henbane and poppies, until the
aching was almost gone. So soft and so kind was he withal that Nick took
heart after a little and asked timidly, "And ye will let me go home
to-day, sir, will ye not?"

The master-player frowned.

"Please, Master Carew, let me go."

"Come, come," said Carew, impatiently, "enough of this!" and stamped his
foot.

"But, oh, Master Carew," pleaded Nick, with a sob in his throat, "my
mother's heart will surely break if I do na come home!"

Carew started, and his mouth twitched queerly. "Enough, I say--enough!"
he cried. "I will not hear; I'll have no more. I tell thee hold thy
tongue--be dumb! I'll not have ears--thou shalt not speak! Dost hear?"
He dashed the towel to the ground. "I bid thee hold thy tongue."

Nick hid his face between his hands, and leaned against the rough stone
wall, a naked, shivering, wretched little chap indeed. "Oh, mother,
mother, mother!" he sobbed pitifully.

A singular expression came over the master-player's face. "I will not
hear--I tell thee I will not hear!" he choked, and, turning suddenly
away, he fell upon the sleepy hostler, who was drawing water at the
well, and rated him outrageously, to that astounded worthy's
great amazement.

Nick crept into his clothes, and stole away to the kitchen door. There
was a red-faced woman there who bade him not to cry--'t would soon be
breakfast-time. Nick thought he could not eat at all; but when the
savory smell crept out and filled the chilly air, his poor little empty
stomach would not be denied, and he ate heartily. Master Heywood sat
beside him and gave him the choicest bits from his own trencher; and
Carew himself, seeing that he ate, looked strangely pleased, and ordered
him a tiny mutton-pie, well spiced. Nick pushed it back indignantly; but
Heywood took the pie and cut it open, saying quietly: "Come, lad, the
good God made the sheep that is in this pie, not Gaston Carew. Eat
it--come, 'twill do thee good!" and saw him finish the last crumb.

From Towcester south through Northamptonshire is a pretty country of
rolling hills and undulating hollows, ribboned with pebbly rivers, and
dotted with fair parks and tofts of ash and elm and oak. Straggling
villages now and then were threaded on the road like beads upon a
string, and here and there the air was damp and