ALL ’8 WELL THAT ENDS WELL 295

the London players gave a rousing cheer. Master Ben
Jonson’s shout might have been heard in Market Square.

At this tremendous uproar the servants peeped at the
doors and windows; and Tom Boteler, peering in from
the buttery hall, and seeing the two round money-bags
plumping on the table, crept away with such a look of
amazement upon his face that Mollikins, the scullery-maid,
thought he had seen a ghost, and fled precipitately into
the pantry.

“And what ’s more, Neighbor Tanner,” said Master
Richard Burbage, “had Carew’s daughter not sixpence to
her name, we vagabond players, as ye have had the scanty
grace to dub us, would have cared for her for the honour
of the craft, and reared her gently in some quiet place
where there never falls even the shadow of such evil
things as have been the end of many a right good fellow
beside old Kit Marlowe and Gaston Carew.”

“And to that end, Neighbor Attwood,” Master Shakspere
added, “we have, through my young Lord Hunsdon, who
has just been made State Chamberlain, Her Majesty’s
gracious permission to hold this money in trust for the
little maid as guardians under the law.”

Cicely stared around perplexed. “Won't Nick be
there?” she asked. “Why, then I will not go—they shall
not take thee from me, Nick!” and she threw her arms
around him. “I ’m going to stay with thee till daddy
comes, and be thine own sister forever.”

Master Jonson laughed gently, not his usual roaring
laugh, but one that was as tender as his own bluff heart.