rinding of the self-same press?
Strange, that the bar was off the door, and, as I came to it, a fellow
with a ream on his back laboured out. I had expected naught but the
desolation and silence which I last remembered in the place, and it
staggered me to find all going on as before. No doubt here was some
upstart printer, standing in my late master's shoes and working at his
forfeited press!

In no pleasant mood I walked, ragged and travel-stained as I was, into
the shop. Sure enough, it was Peter Stoupe, my late fellow-apprentice,
who was whining, and beside him a new journeyman lugged at the press.

Peter knew me not at first, so changed and unkempt was I with my long
journeyings.

"Come," said he, surlily, "bustle hence, thou varlet. We keep nought
here but sticks for rogues like thee to taste. Get you gone!"

And he advanced on me with the stick.

Just to remind him of old days, I whipped it from his hand and gave him
a crack on the skull, which brought him to himself at once.

"Why," said he, dropping his jaw, and gaping at me as if I had been a
ghost, "if it be not Humphrey Dexter, as I'm a sinner!"

"As certain as thou art a sinner," said I, "it is none other. What of
that, Peter Stoupe?"

"Why," said he, "I warn thee to pack hence. For Master Walgrave hath
had enough of thee, I warrant; and there is none else here wanteth
thee."

"Then Master Walgrave is out of gaol?" I asked.

"No thanks to thee; he hath made his peace with the Company, and is
restored to his own."

"And my mistress, and Jeannette, and the lad?" I asked.

"They are naught to thee," answered he, curtly.

"Are they here?" I asked again.

"I tell thee that is naught to thee, Humphrey Dexter. I marvel, after
what is past, you dare name them."

"By heavens, you shall have something to marvel at," said I, laying hold
of him by the collar, and shaking him till his bones rattled. "Answer
me, are they here?"

"To be sure, to be sure," gasped he. "I pray you unhand me, Humphrey;
my old friend, you are too rough."

I flung him off, to the mirth of the new journeyman (who, it was plain,
loved him no more than I), and walked through the shop to the parlour
behind.

There in a nook beside the window, which was open to let in the sweet
scent of the spring and the merry chirping of the birds, sat my sweet
young mistress, Jeannette, reading out of a book to the little sister
who sat on her knee; and ever and anon looking out