MA’MW’SELLE CICELY CAREW 107

wottest of.” And she looked the very picture of diminutive
severity.

“Very good, ma’m’selle; just as ye say,” said Gregory,
fawning, with very poor grace, however. “ But, knave,”
he snarled, as he turned away, with a black scowl at Nick,
“if thou dost venture on any of thy scurvy pranks while
I be gone, I ‘ll break thy pate.”

Cicely Carew knitted her brows. “That is a saucy
rogue,” said she; “but he hath served my father well.
And, what is much in London town, he is an honest man
withal, though I have caught him at the Spanish wine
behind my father’s back; so he doth butter his tongue
with smooth words when he hath speech with me, for lam
the lady of the house.” She held up her head with a very
pretty pride. “My mother—”

Nick caught his breath, and his eyes filled.

“Nay, boy,” said she, gently; “’t is I should weep, not
thou; for my mother is dead. I do not think I ever saw
her that I know,” she went on musingly; “but she was a
Frenchwoman who served a murdered queen, and she was
the loveliest woman that ever lived.” Cicely clasped her
hands and moved her lips. Nick saw that she was pray-
ing, and bent his head.

“Thou art a good boy,” she said softly; “my father
will like that”; and then went quietly on: “That is why
Gregory Goole doth call me ‘ma’m’selle’—because my
mother was a Frenchwoman. But I am a right English
girl for all that; and when they shout, ‘God save the
Queen!’ at the play, why, I do too! And, oh, boy,” she