rounded
limbs, and the large ruff, now much crumpled after the day's wear, set off
to advantage the round chin which rested on it and the rosy lips, which had
just parted with a smile, as Mary said,--

'Is my boy sleepy?'

'No, mother; don't put me a-bed yet'

Mary was not unwilling to comply with the request, and so they sat on, the
boy's red-gold curls making a gleam of brightness on the sombre black
garments of widowhood which Mary still wore.

Presently the boy said,--

'When I'm a man, will Mr Philip Sidney let me be his esquire? Aunt Lou says
p'raps he will, if you ask him.'

'My boy will not be a man for many a year yet,' Mary said, pressing the
child closer. 'And he would not leave his mother even for Mr Philip
Sidney.'

Ambrose sat upright, and said,--

'I would come back to you, as Humphrey Ratcliffe comes back to his mother,
but I'd like to ride off with Mr Sidney when I am a man.'

'Yes, yes, my boy, all in good time.'

'And I must learn to ride and wrestle, and--oh! a hundred things. I wish to
be a man like Mr Philip Sidney.'

'May you ever be as good, noble, and learned, my son; but come, the sun is
gone to bed, and Ambrose must go too.'

Then, with loving hands, she prepared her child for his bed, smoothing back
the shining hair from the pure white brow, where the blue veins were
clearly traced, and Ambrose knelt at her knee and repeated his little
prayer, adding, with childlike simplicity, after the Amen,--

'Pray, God, make me a good man, like Mr Philip Sidney.'

While Mary Gifford and little Ambrose were thus together in the upper
chamber of Ford Manor, Lucy Forrester had reached the old timbered house by
the lych gate of Penshurst Church, and had obtained admission at Goody
Salter's door, and put the wheaten cake and two eggs on the little rickety
table which stood against the wall in the dark, low room. The old woman's
thanks were not very profuse, hers was by no means a grateful disposition,
and, perhaps, there was no great inducement for Lucy to prolong her visit.
However that might be, it was very short, and she was soon outside again,
and standing in the village street, looking right and left, as if
expecting to see someone coming in either direction. It had not escaped
Mary Gifford's notice that Lucy dressed herself with more than ordinary
care. She wore the short skirt of the time, which displayed her small feet
and ankles to advantage.

Over the skirt was a crimson kirtle of