their first scheme of taking Silkstede
in their way, and made for Romsey. There, under the shadow of the
magnificent nunnery, they dined pleasantly by the waterside at the sign
of Bishop Blaise, patron of the woolcombers of the town, and halted long
enough to refresh Ambrose, who was equal to very little fatigue. It
amused Stephen to recollect how mighty a place he had once thought the
little town.

Did mine host know Master Randall? What Master Randall of Baddesley?
He should think so! Was not the good man or his good wife here every
market-day, with a pleasant word for every one! Men said he had had
some good office about the Court, as steward or the like--for he was
plainly conversant with great men, though he made no boast. If these
guests were kin of his, they were welcome for his sake.

So the brothers rode on amid the gorse and heather till they came to a
broad-spreading oak tree, sheltering a farmhouse built in frames of
heavy timber, filled up with bricks set in zigzag patterns, with a high-
pitched roof and tall chimneys. Barns and stacks were near it, and
fields reclaimed from the heath were waving with corn just tinged with
the gold of harvest. Three or four cows, of the tawny hue that looked
so home-like to the brothers, were being released from the stack-yard
after being milked, and conducted to their field by a tall, white-haired
man in a farmer's smock with a little child perched on his shoulder, who
gave a loud jubilant cry at the sight of the riders. Stephen, pushing
on, began the question whether Master Randall dwelt there, but it broke
off half way into a cry of recognition on either side, Harry's an
absolute shout. "The lads, the lads! Wife, wife! 'tis our own lads!"

And as Perronel, more buxom and rosy than London had ever made her, came
forth from her dairy, and there was a _melee_ of greetings, and Stephen
would have asked what homeless little one the pair had adopted, he was
cut short by an exulting laugh. "No more adopted than thy Giles there,
Stephen. 'Tis our own boy, Thomas Randall! Yea, and if he have come
late, he is the better loved, though I trow Perronel there will ever
look on Ambrose as her eldest son."

"And by my troth, he needs good country diet and air!" cried Perronel.
"Thou hast had none to take care of thee, Ambrose. They have let thee
pine and dwine over thy books. I must take thee in hand."

"'Tis what I brought him to thee for, good aunt," said Stephen,