NICHOLAS ATTWOOD’S HOME 15

play-actor, ’t is scarcely kind to call all players rogues
and low.”

“No more o’ this, Margaret,” cried Attwood, flushing
angrily. “Thou art ever too ready with the boy’s part
against me. He shall na go—I ll find a thing or two for
him to do among the vats that will take this taste for
idleness out of his mouth. He shall na go: so that be all
there is on it.” Rising abruptly, he left the room.

Nick clenched his hands.

“Nicholas,” said his mother, softly.

“Yes, mother,” said he; “I know. But he should na
flout thee so! And, mother, the Queen goes to the play
—father himself saw her at Coventry ten years ago. Is
what the Queen does idle folly?”

His mother took him by the hand and drew him to her
side, with a smile that was half a sigh. “Art thou the
Queen?”

“Nay,” said he; “and it ’s all the better for England,
like enough. But surely, mother, it can na be wrong—”

“To honour thy father?” said she, quickly, laying her
finger across his lips. “Nay, lad; it is thy bounden
duty.”

Nick turned and looked up at her wonderingly.
“Mother,” said he, “art thou an angel come down out of
heaven?”

“Nay,” she answered, patting his flushed cheek; “I be
only the every-day mother of a fierce little son who hath
many a hard, hard lesson to learn. Now eat thy break-
fast—thou hast been up a long while.”