MA’M’SELLE CICELY CAREW 105

stroked him gently as one would a little dog that was
hurt. “My father will send thee home to thy mother, I
know; for he is very kind and good. Some one hath lied
to thee about him.”

Nick wiped his swollen eyes dubiously upon his sleeve;
yet the little maid seemed positive. Perhaps, after all,
there was a mistake somewhere.

“Art hungry, boy?” she asked suddenly, spying the
empty trencher on the floor. “There is a pasty and a cake
in the buttery, and thou shalt have some of it if thou wilt
not ery any more. Come, I cannot bear to see thee ery—
it makes me weep myself; and that will blear mine eyes,
and father will feel bad.”

“Tf he but felt as bad as he hath made me feel—”
began Nick, wrathfully; but she laid her little hand
across his mouth. It was a very white, soft, sweet little
hand.

“Come,” said she; “thou art hungry, and it hath made
thee cross!” and, with no more ado, took him by the
hand and led him down the corridor into a large room
where the last daylight shone with a smoky glow.

The walls were wainscoted with many panels, dark, old,
and mysterious; and in a burnished copper brazier at the
end of the room cinnamon, rosemary, and bay were burn-
ing with a pleasant smell. Along the walls were joined-
work chests for linen and napery, of brass-bound oak—
one a black, old, tragic sea-chest, carved with grim faces
and weird griffins, that had been cast up by the North Sea
from the wreck of a Spanish galleon of war. The floor