his finest
parts; John Lowin, Samuel Gilburne, Robert Nash, and William Kemp,
players of the Lord Chamberlain's company; Edmund Shakspere, the actor,
who was Master William Shakspere's younger brother, and Master John
Shakspere, his father; Michael Drayton, the Midland bard; Burgess
Robert Getley, Alderman Henry Walker, and William Hart, the Stratford
hatter, brother-in-law to Master Shakspere.

On one side of the table, between Master Jonson and Master Richard
Burbage, Cicely was seated upon a high chair, with a wreath of early
crimson roses in her hair, attired in the gown in which Nick saw her
first a year before. On the other side of the table Nick had a place
between Master Drayton and Robert Getley, father of his friend Robin.
Half-way down there was an empty chair. Master John Combe was absent.

It was no common party. In all England better company could not have
been found. Some few of them the whole round world could not have
matched then, and could not match now.

It would be worth a fortune to know the things they said,--the quips,
the jests, the merry tales that went around that board,--but time has
left too little of what such men said and did, and it can be imagined
only by the brightest wits.

'Twas Master Shakspere on his feet, welcoming his friends to his "New
Place" with quiet words that made them glad to live and to be there,
when suddenly he stopped, his hands upon the table by his chair,
and stared.

The tanner stood there, silent, in the door.

Nick's face turned pale. Cicely clung to Master Jonson's arm.

Simon Attwood stepped into the room, and Master Shakspere went quickly
to meet him in the middle of the floor.

"Master Will Shakspere," said the tanner, hoarsely, "I ha' come about a
matter." There he stopped, not knowing what to say, for he was
overwrought.

"Out with it, sir," said Master Shakspere, sternly. "There is much here
to be said."

The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and looked about the ring of
cold, averted faces. Soft words with him were few; he had forgotten
tender things; and, indeed, what he meant to do was no easy thing
for any man.

"Come, say what thou hast to say," said Master Shakspere, resolutely;
"and say it quickly, that we may have done."

"There's nought that I can say," said Simon Attwood, "but that I be
sorry, and I want my son! Nick! Nick!" he faltered brokenly, "I be wrung
for thee; will ye na come home--just for thy mother's sake, Nick, if