MA’M’SELLE CICELY CAREW 111

“But will ye truly leave me go, sir?” faltered Nick.

“Why, of course—to be sure—yes, certainly—yes, yes.
But, Nick, it is too late this night. Why, come, thou
couldst not go to-night. See, ’tis dark, and thou a stranger
in the town. ’T is far to Stratford town—thou couldst
not walk it, lad; there will be carriers anon. Come, stay
awhile with Cicely and me—we will make thee a right
welcome guest!”

“That we will,” cried Cicely, clapping her hands. “Oh,
do stay; I am so lonely here! The maid is silly, Margot
old, and the rats run in the wall.”

“And thou must to the theater, my lad, and sing for
London town—ay, Nicholas,” and Carew’s voice rang
proudly. “The highest heads in London town must hear
that voice of thine, or I shall die unshrift. What! lad?—
come all the way from Coventry, and never show that face
of thine, nor let them hear thy skylark’s song? Why,
*t were a shame! And, Nick, my lord the Admiral shall
hear thee sing when he comes home again; perchance the
Queen herself. Why, Nick, of course thou ‘lt sing. Thou
hast not heart to say thou wilt not sing—even for me whom
thou hatest.”

Nick smiled in spite of himself, for Cicely was leaning
on the arm of his chair, devouring him with her great
dark eyes. “Dost truly, truly sing?” she asked.

Nick laughed and blushed, and Carew laughed. “What,
doth he sing? Why, Nick, come, tune that skylark note
of thine for little Golden-heart and me. ’T will make her
think she hears the birds in verity—and, Nick, the lass