tion in this book, not quite finished, representing Judas
Iscariot in parti-coloured stockings, and Saint Peter shooting at
Malchus with a cross-bow, is Margery now summoned away to the kitchen.

Margery entered the kitchen with a noiseless step, and making a low
courtesy to her mother, said, in a remarkably clear, silvery voice, "It
pleased you to send for me, good mother."

"Yea, lass; give a hand to the blanch-porre, for Al'ce knows no more
than my shoe; and then see to the grewall, whilst I scrape these almonds
for the almond butter."

Margery quietly performed her task, and spoke to the mortified Al'ce in
a much gentler tone than Dame Lovell had done. She was occupied in the
preparation of "eels in grewall," a kind of eel-stew, when a slender
youth, a little older than herself, and attired in the usual costume of
a page, entered the kitchen.

"Why, Richard Pynson," cried Dame Lovell, "thou art a speedy messenger,
in good sooth. I looked not for thee until evensong."

"I finished mine errand, good mistress," replied the youth, "earlier by
much than I looked for to do."

"Hast heard any news, Richard?"

"None, mistress mine, unless it be news that a homily will be preached
in Bostock Church on Sunday next ensuing, by a regular of Oxenforde, one
Master Sastre."

The grewall was standing still, and Margery was listening intently to
the words of Richard Pynson, as he carelessly leaned against the wall.

"Will you go, Mistress Margery?"

Margery looked timidly at her mother. "I would like well to go," said
she, "an' it might stand with your good pleasure."

"Ay, lass, go," replied Dame Lovell, good-naturedly. "It is seldom we
have a homily in Bostock Church. Parson Leggatt is not much given to
preaching, meseemeth."

"I will go with you, Master Pynson," said Margery, resuming the
concoction of the dainty dish before her, "with a very good will, for I
should like greatly to hear the Reverend Father. I never yet heard
preach a scholar of Oxenforde."

Dame Lovell moved away to take the pottage off the fire, and Pynson,
approaching Margery, whispered to her, "They say that this Master Sastre
preacheth strange things, like as did Master John Wycliffe a while
agone; howbeit, since Holy Church interfereth not, I trow we may well go
to hear him."

Margery's colour rose, and she said in a low voice, "It will do us no
harm, trow?"

"I trust not so," answered Richard; and, taking up his hunting-bag, he
qui