" replied Cissy, quite gravely; "I dress
Father's meat and mend his clothes, and love him. That's taking care of
him, isn't it?"

The gaoler's men, who were accustomed to see every body in the prison
appear afraid of him, were evidently much amused by the perfect
fearlessness of Cissy. Wastborowe himself seemed to think it a very
good joke.

"And who takes care of thee?" asked he.

Cissy gave her usual answer. "God takes care of me."

"And not of thy father?" said Wastborowe with a sneer.

The sneer passed by Cissy quite harmlessly.

"God takes care of all of us," she said. "He helps Father to take care
of me, and He helps me to take care of Father."

"He'll be taken goodly care of when he's burned," said the gaoler
coarsely, taking another draught out of the tankard.

Cissy considered that point.

"Please, Mr Wastborowe, we mustn't expect to be taken better care of
than the Lord Jesus; and He had to suffer, you know. But it won't
signify when we get to Heaven, I suppose."

"Heretics don't go to Heaven!" replied Wastborowe.

"I don't know what heretics are," said Cissy; "but every body who loves
the Lord Jesus is sure to get there. Satan would not want them, you
know; and Jesus will want them, for He died for them. He'll look after
us, I expect. Don't you think so, Mr Wastborowe?"

"Hold thy noise!" said the gaoler, rising, with the empty jug in his
hand. He wanted some more ale, and he was tired of amusing himself with
Cissy.

"Hush thee, my little maid!" said her father, laying his hand on her
head.

"Is he angry, Father?" asked Cissy, looking up. "I said nothing wrong,
did I?"

"There's somewhat wrong," responded he, "but it's not thee, child."

Meanwhile Wastborowe was crossing the court to his own house, jug in
hand. Opening the door, he set down the jug on the table, with the
short command, "Fill that."

"You may tarry till I've done," answered Audrey, calmly ironing on. She
was the only person in the place who was not afraid of her husband. In
fact, he was afraid of her when, as he expressed it, she "was wrong side
up."

"Come, wife! I can't wait," replied Wastborowe in a tone which he never
used to any living creature but Audrey or a priest.

Audrey coolly set down the iron on its stand, folded up the shirt which
she had just finished, and laid another on the board.

"You can, wait uncommon well, John Wastborowe," said she; "you've had as
much as is good for you already,