hobgoblins till the
time came for her to go up the hill to the Ratcliffes' house.

Lucy did not attempt to sit down at the board when dinner was served at
eleven o'clock. She had once or twice, when in disgrace, rebelled at the
sight of the crust of bread and the mug of water which had been set before
her as a token of Mistress Forrester's displeasure.

'I am not a child now,' she thought, 'to be gaped at by serving men and
maids. I will take care of myself in the buttery, and then get ready for my
walk up the hill. Perhaps, who knows, I may chance to meet Mr Sidney, and
I may get a word from him or a rare smile; and then a fig for frowns and
the rating and scolding of fifty cross stepmothers! I wish Mary did not
look so grave. I hate to grieve her. Well-a-day, if only I can get to
London, and see him in the tourney, I shall die of joy.'

Lucy was scarcely sixteen, an enthusiastic child, who had conceived a
romantic devotion for Mr Philip Sidney, and worshipped his ideal as maidens
of her temperament have worshipped at their idol's shrine since time began.

And who can blame this country maiden if she cherished a passionate
admiration for one, who won the hearts of Court ladies and hoary statesmen
of a grave scholar like Hubert Languet, and of the Queen herself, who
called him the brightest jewel of her Court, and who often excited the
jealousy of her older favourites by the marks of favour she bestowed on
him.

In the village church on Sundays Lucy would sit with anxious, eager
expectation till she saw the Sidney pew filled; if Mr Sidney was present it
was an hour or two of bliss; if, as was frequently the case, his place was
empty, she would bow her head to hide the tears of vexation and
disappointment which started to her eyes.

Nor have these dreams of youthful romance wholly passed away. Even in the
rush and hurry of the prosaic world at the end of the nineteenth century
they yet give a certain pleasure of unfulfilled longings to some young
hearts, and fade away like the early cloud and morning dew, to leave behind
only a memory of mingled pain and sweetness, recalled in after time with
something of self-pity and something of surprise that such things had ever
seemed real and not visionary, and had touched the warm springs in the
heart now chilled, it may be, by the stern exigencies of this transitory
life.

It must be said that few idols have been worthier of youthful adoration
than was this true knight at