son, from his dress, which,
though very simple, was of materials indicative of good birth. He had
long dark brown hair, which curled over his shoulders, and almost hid
his face, bent down over a large book, for he was reading as he walked.
Barbara waited until he came up to her.

"Give you good morrow, Master! I be loth to come betwixt you and your
studies, but my need presseth me to pray of you the way unto Master
Tremayne's house the parson?"

The lad started on hearing a voice, hastily closed his book, and lifted
a pair of large, dreamy brown eyes to Barbara's face. But he seemed
quite at a loss to recall what he had been asked to do.

"You would know?"--he said inquiringly.

"I would know, young Master," returned Barbara boldly, "if your name be
not Tremayne?"

"Ay so," assented the boy, with a rather surprised look. "My name is
Arthur Tremayne." [A fictitious person.]

"And you be son unto Master Tremayne the parson?"

"Truly."

"Verily I guessed so much, for his eyes be in your head," said Barbara
quaintly. "But your mouth and nose be Mrs Thekla's. Eh, dear heart,
what changes life bringeth! Why, it seemeth me but yestre'en that your
father was no bigger than you. And every whit as much given to his
book, I warrant you. Pray you, is my mistress your mother at home?"

"Ay, you shall find her there now," said the boy, as he tucked the big
book under his arm, and began to walk on in Barbara's company. "I count
you be our old friend, Barbara Polwhele, that is come with little
Mistress Clare? My mother will be fain to see you."

Barbara was highly gratified to find that Arthur Tremayne had heard of
her already. The two trudged onwards together, and in a few minutes
reached the ivy-covered parsonage, standing in its pretty flower-garden.
Arthur preceded Barbara into the house, laid down his book on the hall
window-seat, and opening a door which led to the back part of the house,
appealed to an unseen person within.

"Mother! here is Mistress Barbara Polwhele."

"Barbara Polwhele!" said a voice in reply,--a voice which Barbara had
not heard for nineteen years, yet which time had so little altered that
she recognised at once the Thekla Rose of old. And in another moment
Mrs Tremayne stood before her.

Her aspect was more changed than her voice. The five terrible years of
the Marian persecution had swept over her head in early youth, and their
bitter anxieties and forebodings left her, at th