her troubles in turning over the piles of ribbons and lace laid
out before her. She chose some ribbons, some lace, and a few trinkets.

'I will add this too, lady,' said the pedlar as he handed her the goods,
laying a faded yellow rosebud on the top; 'it once was sweet, and the
perfume lingers long.'

Millicent gazed thoughtfully at the pedlar, and he met her eyes with a
meaning look.

''Tis growing dusk, good man,' she said carelessly, 'and the court-yard
gates will soon be shut, so I advise you to take the straight road
through the park if you would be at the village ere dark. Come,
children, we will go indoors out of the cold,' and she turned away.

But having once got rid of the little girls and gained the privacy of
her own room, she hastily fastened the bolt; then drawing a dark cloak
round her, she got out through the window, and by the aid of the
apple-tree easily reached the ground. A few minutes more and she had
overtaken the pedlar, who was walking slowly through the park.

'You carry more than a rosebud in your basket, good man,' she said
cautiously.

'That do I, lady,' he answered; 'but mayhap we could talk more safely
under these trees.'

Then when they were out of sight of any passer-by he went on: 'I am
Jasper Pope at your service, Sir Denzil de Foulke's own man, and I have
in my basket such a disguise as would puzzle his dearest friend, that of
a pedlar's wife. Also there is a packet for you, lady; you will find it
at the bottom. I could not see you sooner. I have been selling my wares
in the village for a day or two, but durst not venture near the Court
until I heard the old madame was absent.'

The basket seemed a light weight to Millicent, as she carried it back to
the house, for now she saw the end of her difficulties. She had some
trouble getting it up to the window, but after that all was easy. The
children were in bed and the servants lingering over their supper, and
the back-stairs so far away that no one noticed the stealthy footsteps
as Sir Denzil crept down them in his strange attire.

Little did Sir David Basset or Dame Deborah dream that the lame
pedlar-woman, in the lilac print dress and white mob-cap, whom they
passed in the park, and who curtsied so low as the great coach lumbered
past, was the Royalist leader whom everyone was searching for; neither
did they dream that Millicent, who was waiting so demurely on the steps
to receive them, wore under her smooth white kerchief a l