most folks a couple of winters."

"Ay, he doth so: he's a northern man, you see--comes from where
sea-coal's cheaper than here, and they are wont to pile their fires
big."

"Shouldn't ha' thought them billets wouldn't hardly ha' taken all that
there room," said Gibbons, looking into the vault, while he scratched
his head with one hand, and hitched up his porter's frock to put the
other in his pocket.

"Oh, I didn't stack 'em so tight," said Mr Percy's man, carelessly,
tying up a bit of string which he picked from the floor.

"Ah! well, but tight or loose, shouldn't hardly ha' thought it. Master
coming soon, eh?"

"Haven't heard what day. Afore long, very like."

"Has he e'er a wife that he'll bring?"

"She's in the country," said the disguised man-servant, who knew that
she was then at the Green Dragon, teaching sundry little girls the
mysteries of felling and whipping cambric.

"Well, 'tis dry work. Come and have a pint at the Maid's Head."

"No, thank you, I don't care for it. There's a penny for yours."

As this was the price of a quart of the best ale, Mr Gibbons pocketed
the penny with satisfaction, and forbore to remark censoriously on what
he deemed the very singular taste of Mr Percy's man. He shambled
awkwardly off with his waggon, meaning first to put up his horses, and
then go and expend his penny in the beverage wherein his soul delighted.
His companion gave a low laugh as he turned the key in the door of the
cellar.

"No, thank you, Gideon Gibbons," said he to himself. "It may suit you
to sit boozing at the Maid's Head, telling all you know and guessing
much that you don't: here's wishing your early muddlement before you get
on the subject of this wood! But it won't do for Guy Fawkes, my fine
fellow!"

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Note 1. Lord Mordaunt was a trimmer, afraid of being known to be a
Papist, and, like most half-hearted people, a great sufferer from the
struggle between the conscience and the flesh.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

AN APPLE-CAST AND A LETTER.

"Better the blind faith of our youth
Than doubt, which all truth braves;
Better to die, God's children dear,
Than live, the Devil's slaves."

Dinah Mulock.

"Good-morrow, Lady Lettice! I am come to ask a favour."

"Ask it, I pray you, Mrs Rookwood."

"Will you suffer Mrs Lettice to come to our apple-cast on Tuesday next?
We shall have divers young folks of our