274 MASTER SKYLARK

“La! Joan,” whispered one, “he calleth thee ‘mistress’!
Speak up, wench.” But Joan stoutly held her peace.

“Or if ye will, the little maid will dance the coranto
for you, straight from my Lord Chancellor’s dancing-
master; and while she dances I will sing.”

“Why, hark ’e, Rob,” spoke out one motherly dame,
“they two do look clean-like. Children, too—who ’d gi’
them stones when they beg for bread? Ill do for them
this night myself; and thou, the good man, and Kit can
sleep in the hutch. So there, dears; now let ’s see the
Lord Chancellor’s tantrums.”

‘OT is not a tantrums, goody,” said Nick, politely, “but
a coranto.”

“La! young master, what ’s the odds, just so we sees it
done? Some folks calls whittles ‘knives,’ and thinks ’t
wunnot cut theys fingers! ”

Nick took his place at the side of the ring. “Now,
Cicely!” said he.

“Thou ’lt call ‘Sa—sa!’ and give me the time of the
coup Warchet?” she whispered, timidly hesitant, as she
stepped to the midst of the ring.

“Ay, then,” said he, “’t is off, ’t is off!” and struck up
a lively tune, snapping his fingers for the time.

Cicely, bowing all about her, slowly began to dance.

It was a pretty sight to see: her big eyes wide and
earnest, her cheeks a little flushed, her short hair curling,
and her crimson gown fluttering about her as she danced
the quaint running step forward and back across the grass,
balancing archly, with her hands upon her hips and a little