edeth a wise man to be fool to my Lord of York."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

QUIPSOME HAL.

"The sweet and bitter fool
Will presently appear,
The one in motley here
The other found out there."
Shakespeare.

There lay the quiet Temple Gardens, on the Thames bank, cut out in
formal walks, with flowers growing in the beds of the homely kinds
beloved by the English. Musk roses, honeysuckle and virgin's bower,
climbed on the old grey walls; sops-in-wine, bluebottles, bachelor's
buttons, stars of Bethlehem and the like, filled the borders; May thorns
were in full sweet blossom; and near one another were the two rose-
bushes, one damask and one white provence, whence Somerset and Warwick
were said to have plucked their fatal badges; while on the opposite side
of a broad grass-plot was another bush, looked on as a great curiosity
of the best omen, where the roses were streaked with alternate red and
white, in honour, as it were, of the union of York and Lancaster.

By this rose-tree stood the two young Birkenholts. Edmund Burgess
having, by his master's desire, shown them the way, and passed them in
by a word and sign from his master, then retired unseen to a distance to
mark what became of them, they having promised also to return and report
of themselves to Master Headley.

They stood together earnestly watching for the coming of the uncle,
feeling quite uncertain whether to expect a frail old broken man, or to
find themselves absolutely deluded, and made game of by the jester.

The gardens were nearly empty, for most people were sitting over their
supper-tables after the business of the day was over, and only one or
two figures in black gowns paced up and down in conversation.

"Come away, Ambrose," said Stephen at last. "He only meant to make
fools of us! Come, before he comes to gibe us for having heeded a
moment. Come, I say--here's this man coming to ask us what we are doing
here."

For a tall, well-made, well personage in the black or sad colour of a
legal official, looking like a prosperous householder, or superior
artisan, was approaching them, some attendant, as the boys concluded
belonging to the Temple. They expected to be turned out, and Ambrose in
an apologetic tone, began, "Sir, we were bidden to meet a--a kinsman
here."

"And even so am I," was the answer, in a grave, quiet tone, "or rather
to meet twain."

Ambrose looked up into a pair of dark eyes, and exclaimed, "Stevie,
Stevie, 'ti