break thy heart than to beguile
thy conscience. A right good thing--for the conscience. Is this
Clare?" she asked, breaking off suddenly as Clare came in, with a tone
which showed that she felt most interest in her of the three. She took
both Clare's hands and studied her face intently.

"Walter's eyes," she said. "Isoult Barry's eyes! The maid could have
none better. And John Avery's mouth. Truth and love in the eyes;
honour and good learning on the lips. Thou wilt do, child, and that
rarely well."

"Mistress Philippa Basset is a right old friend of thy dear grandame,
Clare," said Mrs Tremayne in explanation. "Thou canst not remember
her, but this worthy gentlewoman doth well so, and can tell thee much of
her when they were young maids together, and thy grandmother was
gentlewoman unto Mistress Philippa her mother, my sometime Lady
Viscountess Lisle."

Clare looked interested, but she did not say much.

Mr Tremayne and Arthur came in together, only just in time for
four-hours.

"God save thee, Robin dear!" was Philippa's greeting. "Art rested from
Little Ease? I saw thee but slightly sithence, mind thou, and never had
no good talk with thee."

Mr Tremayne laughed more merrily than was usual with him.

"Good Mistress Philippa, if thirty years were not enough to rest a man,
in very deed he were sore aweary."

"Now, Arthur," said Philippa, turning to him bluntly, "come and let me
look thee o'er."

Arthur obeyed, with grave lips, but amused eyes.

"Robin's eyes--Thekla's mouth--Father Rose's brow--Custance Tremayne's
chin," she said, enumerating them rapidly. "If the inward answer the
outward, lad, thou shouldst be a rare good one."

"Then I fear it doth not so," said Arthur soberly, "Humbleness will do
thee no hurt, lad.--Now, Thekla, let us have our four-hours. I could
eat a baken brick wall. Ay me! dost mind thee of the junkets, in old
days, at the Lamb?"

"Thekla, I told thee afore, and I do it yet again,--women be flat fools.
The biggest I know is Orige Enville. And in good sooth, that is much
to say! She is past old Doll, at Crowe, that threw her kerchief over
the candle to put it out. Blanche may be a step the better; methinks
she is. But for all that, she is Orige Enville's daughter. I would as
soon fetch my bodkin and pierce that child to the heart, as I would send
her to the Court, where her blind bat of a mother would fain have her.
'Twere the kindlier deed of the twain. Lack-