112 MASTER SKYLARK

hath never seen a bird that sang, except within a cage.
Nay, lad, this is no cage!” he cried, as Nick looked about
and sighed. “We will make it very home for thee—will
Cicely and I.”

“That we will!” cried Cicely. “Come, boy, sing for
me—my mother used to sing.”

At that Gaston Carew went white as a sheet, and put
his hand quickly up to his face. Cicely darted to his side
with a frightened cry, and caught his hand away. He
tried to smile, but it was a ghastly attempt. “Tush, tush!
little one; ’t was something stung me!” said he, huskily,
“Sing, Nicholas, I beg of thee!”

There was such a sudden world of weariness and sorrow
in his voice that Nick felt a pity for he knew not what,
and lifting up his clear young voice, he sang the quaint
old madrigal.

Carew sat with his face in his hand, and after it was
done arose unsteadily and said, “Come, Golden-heart ; ’t is
music such as charmeth care and lureth sleep out of her
dark valley—we must be trotting off to bed.”

That night Nick slept upon a better bed, with a sheet
and a blue serge coverlet, and a pillow stuffed with chaff.

But as he drifted off into a troubled dreamland, he
heard the door-bolt throb into its socket, and knew that
he was fastened in.