ing his hand to his pocket, "not a groat! Stay, here is a crooked
sixpence of King James that none but a fool would take. The merry
robbers left me that for luck."

Dick Barton growled as he turned in his saddle. "We must ride on,
then, till we find a cousin to loan us a few pounds. Sir Empty-purse
fares ill at an inn."

"By my sore seat," laughed Harcourt, "we'll ride no farther to-night.
Here we 'light, at the sign of the Magpie in the Moon. The rogues of
Farborough Cross have trimmed us well; the honest folk of Market
Farborough shall feed us better!"

"For a crooked sixpence!" grumbled Barton. "Will you beg our
entertainment like a pair of landlopers, or will you take it by force
like our late friends on the road?"

"Neither," said Harcourt, "but in the fashion that befits
gentlemen--with a bold face, a gay tongue, and a fine coat well
carried. Remember, Dick, look up, and no snivelling! Tell your
ill-fortune and you bid for more. 'Tis Monsieur Debonair that owns the
tavern."

Their lusty shouts brought the hostler on the trot to take their
steaming horses, and the landlord stood in the open door, his broad
face a welcome to such handsome guests. They entered as if the place
belonged to them, and called for the best it contained as if it were
just good enough. The whole house was awake and astir with their
coming. The smiling maids ran to and fro; the rustics in the long room
stared and admired: the table was spread with a fair cloth and loaded
with a smoking supper; and afterward there were pots of ale for all
the company, and a song with a chorus. The landlord, with his thumbs
in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, patted himself to see his business
go so merrily. But the landlady came to the door, now and then, and
looked in with anxious eyes.

"Mark the mistress," whispered Barton; "she has her suspicions."

"Her troubles," answered Harcourt, "and that I relish not. I will have
all happy around me, else my spirit sinks and the game is lost. I'll
talk with her."

He beckoned her to his side with a courteous gesture.

"A famous supper, Mistress," said he, "but your face is too downcast
for the maker of such a masterpiece. What is it that ails you?"

"It is my child," she answered; "kind sir, my little Faith is ill of
fever, and the physician has been called away. He has left her a
draught, but she grows worse, and the fever holds her from sleep. It
may be that you know something of the healing art."

"A