came a voice which sent a stir through my
veins.

"Good people, good people," said the voice, "what with preaching and
brawling, a body can get no sleep in the Lane. Pray go and work, or if
you've no work, go and drink. Here are the means." And a shower of small
coins came flying down on our heads, causing an immediate wild scramble.
My flower-girl loosed me that she might take her part in this fray; the
porter stood motionless, still holding poor Phineas, limp and lank, in
his hand; and I turned my eyes upwards to the window of the Cock and
Pie.

I looked up, and I saw her. Her sunny brown hair was about her
shoulders, her knuckles rubbed her sleepy eyes to brightness, and a
loose white bodice, none too high nor too carefully buttoned about the
neck, showed that her dressing was not done. Indeed, she made a pretty
picture, as she leant out, laughing softly, and now shading her face
from the sun with one hand, while she raised the other in mocking
reproof of the preacher.

"Fie, sir, fie," she said. "Why fall on a poor girl who earns an honest
living, gives to the needy, and is withal a good Protestant?" Then she
called to the porter, "Let him go with what life you've left in him. Let
him go."

"You heard what he said of you----" began the fellow sullenly.

"Ay, I hear what everybody says of me," she answered carelessly. "Let
him go."

The porter sulkily released his prey, and Phineas, set free, began to
gasp and shake himself. Another coin whistled down to the porter, who,
picking it up, shambled off with a last oath of warning to his enemy.
Then, and then only, did she look at me, who had never ceased to look at
her. When she saw me, her smile grew broader, and her eyes twinkled in
surprise and delight.

"A happy morning!" she said, clasping her little hands. "Ah, a happy
morning! Why, 'tis Simon, my Simon, my little Simon from the country.
Come up to me, Simon. No, no, your pardon; I'll come down to you, Simon.
In the parlour, in the parlour. Quick! I'll be down in an instant."

The vision vanished, but my gaze dwelt on the window where it had been,
and I needed Phineas Tate's harsh voice to rouse me from my stupor.

"Who is the woman?" he demanded.

"Why--why--Mistress Gwyn herself," I stammered.

"Herself--the woman, herself?" he asked eagerly. Then he suddenly drew
himself up and, baring his head, said solemnly, "Thanks be to God,
thanks be to God, for it may be His will that this brand should be
p