e graceful head, "Poor old hound, thou
art o'er travelled. He is aged for such a Journey, if you came from the
Forest since morn. Twelve years at the least, I should say, by his
muzzle."

"Your reverence is right," said Stephen, "he is twelve years old. He is
two years younger than I am, and my father gave him to me when he was a
little whelp."

"So thou must needs take him to seek thy fortune with thee," said the
good-natured Augustinian, not knowing how truly he spoke. "Come in, my
lads, here's a drink for him. What said you was your uncle's name?" and
as Ambrose repeated it, "Birkenholt! Living on a corrody at Hyde! Ay!
ay! My lads, I have a call to Winchester to-morrow, you'd best tarry
the night here at Silkstede Grange, and fare forward with me."

The tired boys were heartily glad to accept the invitation, more
especially as Spring, happy as he was with the trough of water before
him, seemed almost too tired to stand over it, and after the first,
tried to lap, lying down. Silkstede was not a regular convent, only a
grange or farmhouse, presided over by one of the monks, with three or
four lay brethren under him, and a little colony of hinds, in the
surrounding cottages, to cultivate the farm, and tend a few cattle and
numerous sheep, the special care of the Augustinians.

Father Shoveller, as the good-natured monk who had received the
travellers was called, took them into the spacious but homely chamber
which served as refectory, kitchen, and hall. He called to the lay
brother who was busy over the open hearth to fry a few more rashers of
bacon; and after they had washed away the dust of their Journey at the
trough where Spring had slaked his thirst, they sat down with him to a
hearty supper, which smacked more of the grange than of the monastery,
spread on a large solid oak table, and washed down with good ale. The
repast was shared by the lay brethren and farm servants, and also by two
or three big sheep-dogs, who had to be taught their manners towards
Spring.

There was none of the formality that Ambrose was accustomed to at
Beaulieu in the great refectory, where no one spoke, but one of the
brethren read aloud some theological book from a stone pulpit in the
wall. Here Brother Shoveller conversed without stint, chiefly with the
brother who seemed to be a kind of bailiff, with whom he discussed the
sheep that were to be taken into market the next day, and the prices to
be given for them by eit