especially as
both the lads had inherited the same dark eyes from their mother, and
Ambrose for the first time perceived a considerable resemblance between
him and Stephen, not only in feature but in unconscious gesture.

Ambrose was considering whether he had better give his uncle a hint,
lest concealment should excite suspicion; when, niched as it were
against an abutment of the wall of the Temple courts, close to some
steps going down to the Thames, they came upon a tiny house, at whose
open door stood a young woman in the snowiest of caps and aprons over a
short black gown, beneath which were a trim pair of blue hosen and stout
shoes; a suspicion of yellow hair was allowed to appear framing the
honest, fresh, Flemish face, which beamed a good-humoured welcome.

"Here they be! here be the poor lads, Pernel mine." She held out her
hand, and offered a round comfortable cheek to each, saying, "Welcome to
London, young gentlemen."

Good Mistress Perronel did not look, exactly the stuff to make a glee-
maiden of, nor even the beauty for whom to sacrifice everything, even
liberty and respect. She was substantial in form, and broad in face and
mouth, without much nose, and with large almost colourless eyes. But
there was a wonderful look of heartiness and friendliness about her
person and her house; the boys had never in their lives seen anything so
amazingly and spotlessly clean and shining. In a corner stood an
erection like a dark oaken cupboard or wardrobe, but in the middle was
an opening about a yard square through which could be seen the night-
capped face of a white-headed white-bearded old man, propped against
snowy pillows. To him Randall went at once, saying, "So, gaffer, how
goes it? You see I have brought company, my poor sister's sons--rest
her soul!"

Gaffer Martin mumbled something to them incomprehensible, but which the
jester comprehended, for he called them up and named them to him, and
Martin put out a bony hand, and gave them a greeting. Though his speech
and limbs had failed him, his intelligence was evidently still intact,
and there was a tenderly-cared-for look about him, rendering his
condition far less pitiable than that of Richard Birkenholt, who was so
palpably treated as an incumbrance.

The table was already covered with a cloth, and Perronel quickly placed
on it a yellow bowl of excellent beef broth, savoury with vegetables and
pot-herbs, and with meat and dumplings floating in it.