he regularly appointed priests to do:
and wrathfully alleged that the public were more ready to confess to
these travelling mendicants than to the proper authorities. It is
possible that the cause may be traced to that human proclivity which
inclines a man to confide rather in a stranger whom he may never meet
again, than in one who can remind him of uncomfortable facts at
inconvenient times: but also it is possible that the people recognised
in the teaching of the Minorite Friars, largely recruited as they were
from the ranks of the Waldenses, somewhat more of that good news which
Christ came to bring to men, than of the endless, unmeaning ceremonies
which encumbered the doctrine of the regular priests.

The summer had given place to autumn. The courtyard of Bury Castle was
strewn with golden and russet leaves; the Countess was preparing a new
dress for the feast of Saint Luke. A foggy day had ended in a dark
night, and Eva threw down her work and rethreaded her needle with a
long-drawn sigh. "Tired of sewing, Eva?"

"Very tired, Lady. I almost wish buttons grew on robes, and required no
sewing."

"Lazy maiden!" said the Countess playfully. "Then I am lazy too,"
interposed Margaret; "for I do hate sewing."

"If it please the Lady," said Levina's voice at the door, "an old man
and woman entreat the honour of laying a petition before her."

"An old man and woman?--such a night as this! Do they come from the
town?"

"If it please the Lady, I do not know."

"Very well. If the warder thinks them not suspicious persons, they can
come into the hall. I shall be down shortly."

When the Countess descended, followed by Margaret and Doucebelle, she
found her petitioners awaiting her. Most unsuspicious, harmless, feeble
creatures they looked. The old man had tottered in as if barely able to
stand; the old woman walked with a stout oaken staff, and was bent
nearly double.

"Well, good people!--what would ye have?" asked the Countess.

In answer, the old man lifted his head, pulled away a mass of false grey
hair and a wax mask from, his face, and the old Jew pedlar, Abraham of
Norwich, stood before the astonished ladies.

"I am come," he said in a voice broken by emotion, "to claim my Lady's
promise."

"What promise, old man?"

"My Lady was pleased to say, that if the robbers broke into the nest, or
the hawk hovered over it, the young bird should be safe in her care."

"Thy daughter? I remember, I did s