resse, between his teeth.

"Pooh, pooh!" said old Hamon. "We all have to put up with those little
amenities. Never mind it, child."

"I'll never mind it--till the time come!" answered Delecresse, in an
undertone. "Then--I think I see how to wipe it off."

Belasez found her mother returned from Lincoln. She received a warm
welcome from Abraham, a much cooler one from Licorice, and was very
glad, having arrived at home late, to go to bed in her own little
chamber, which was inside that of her parents. She soon dropped asleep,
but was awoke ere long by voices in the adjoining room, distinctly
audible through the curtain which alone separated the chambers. They
spoke in Spanish, the language usually employed amongst themselves by
the English Sephardim.

"_Ay de mi_, [`Woe is me!'] that it ever should have been so!" said the
voice of Licorice. "What did the shiksah [Note 1] want with her?"

"I told thee, wife," answered Abraham, in a slightly injured tone, "she
wanted the child to embroider a scarf."

"And I suppose thou wert too anxious to fill thy saddle-bags to care for
the danger to her?"

"There was no danger at all, wife. The Countess promised all I asked
her. And I made thirteen gold pennies clear profit. Thou canst see the
child is no worse--they have been very kind to her: she said as much."

"Abraham, son of Ursel, thou art a very wise man!"

"What canst thou mean, Licorice?"

"`Kind to her!' If they had starved her and beaten her, there might
have been no harm done. Canst thou not see that the girl's heart is
with her Christian friends? Why, she had been crying behind her veil,
quietly, all the journey."

"Well, wife? What then?"

"`What then?' Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob! `What then?' Why, then--she
will do like Anegay."

"The God of our fathers forbid it!" cried Abraham, in tones of horror
and distress.

"It is too late for that," said Licorice, with a short, contemptuous
laugh. "Thou shouldst have said that a year ago, and have kept the
child at home."

"We had better marry her at once," suggested Abraham, still in a voice
of deep pain.

"`There are no birds in last year's nest,' old man," was the response.
"Marry her or let it alone, the child's heart is gone from us. She has
left behind her in yonder Castle those for whom she cares more than for
us, and, I should not wonder also, a faith dearer to her than ours. It
will be Anegay over again. Ah, well! Like to like! Wh