gates
from the well-stocked larder of the knight; by the rich because he
was by far the best tale-teller of the district, and the success of a
feast at which he was present was at once assured; and by the children
generally, for the confections and little silver pence he bestowed
upon them, along with his kind word and cheery smile, in a most
liberal manner.

At Haddon he was a prime favourite with all alike. He had entered the
service of the Vernons soon after the monasteries were dissolved, in
the time of Henry VIII., and had grown old in his office. Throughout
the critical and changeful reigns of Edward and Mary, as well as the
early years of Elizabeth's time, he had, in spite of all the attempts
made to oust him, retained his position as confessor to the family and
priest of the chapel at Haddon, and, as he had christened Margaret, he
was looking forward with pleasurable expectancy to the occasion when
he would be called upon to marry her also.

Leaving Dorothy standing on the threshold of the doorway, Manners
advanced to the injured man's side, and endeavoured to sooth him by
instilling into his mind a ray of hope.

"O, Dorothy," gasped the priest, disregarding the words of his
would-be comforter, "I am dying, dying like a dog. O, for some of
Dame Durden's simples now. For the blessed Virgin's sake fetch Sir
Benedict. O, dear! O, dear!" and he sank back with a groan.

Dorothy turned, and with a fast-beating heart hastened to deliver the
captive knight, while her lover endeavoured to staunch the flow of
blood by binding the wound tightly up in strips of cloth.

By dint of much shaking and shouting cousin Benedict was at last
roused from his drunken sleep, and also at last was made to understand
somewhat of the exigencies of the case for which his aid was needed.

"I will come soon," he exclaimed, in answer to Dorothy's entreaties.

"You must come now!" she replied, in a peremptory tone, which admitted
of no prevarication.

"Where is the wine?" he asked, as he rubbed his eyes and glanced
around; "why, this is the kitchen."

"Come along, Benedict; Father Philip is dying, I tell you. Do you
understand?"

Benedict a Woode stood up as still as he was able, and rubbed off a
quantity of the salt which tenaciously adhered to his garments, then,
noticing for the first time that he was in the great salt trough, he
exclaimed in a tone of great surprise, "What! have I been here?"

"You have," she answered severel