"Now, little maids," said Rachel, when they rose from the table, "I will hear, you your tasks in an hour hence. Till the clock strike, ye may go into the garden."

"May we have some cakes with us, Aunt Rachel?" inquired Jack demurely.

"Cake!" echoed Blanche, clapping her little fat hands.

"Thou!" said Rachel. "Art thou a maid? I have nought to do with thy tasks. Be they ready for Master Tremayne?"

Jack turned up the whites of his eyes, and turned down the corners of his mouth, in a style which exhibited a very emphatic No.

"Go and study them, then, this minute," said his Aunt.

The party separated, Jack putting on a look which was the embodiment of despair; but Sir Thomas, calling Margaret back, put into her hands the plate of small cakes; bidding her take them to the garden and divide them among the children.

"Brother, Brother!" remonstrated Rachel.

"Tut! the cakes will do them no harm," said he carelessly. "There are but a dozen or the like."

Margaret went first towards the garden, carrying the plate, Clare and Blanche following. As they reached the terrace, Lucrece overtook them, going on about a yard in advance of Margaret. When the latter turned her head to call Blanche to "come on," Clare, to her utter amazement, saw Lucrece stop, and, as Margaret pa.s.sed her, silently and deftly dip her hand into the plate, and transfer two of the little cakes to her pocket. The action was so promptly and delicately performed, leaving Margaret entirely unconscious of it, that in all probability it was not the first of its kind.

Clare was intensely shocked. Was Lucrece a thief?

Margaret sat down on a gra.s.sy bank, and counted out the cakes. There were eleven.

"How is this?" she asked, looking perplexed. "There were thirteen of these, I am well a.s.sured, for I counted them o'er as I came out of hall.

Who has taken two?"

"Not I," said Clare shortly.

Blanche shook her curly head; Lucrece, silently but calmly, held out empty hands. So, thought Clare, she is a liar as well, as a thief.

"They must be some whither," said Margaret, quietly; "and I know where it is like: Lucrece, I do verily believe they are in thy pocket."

"Dost thou count me a thief, Meg?" retorted Lucrece.

"By no manner of means, without thou hast the chance," answered Margaret satirically, but still quietly. "Very well,--thou hast chosen thy share,--take it. Three for each of us three, and two over. Shall we give them to Jack? What say ye?"

"Jack!" cried Blanche, dancing about on the gra.s.s.

Clare a.s.sented shyly, and she and Blanche received their three cakes each.

"Must I have none, Meg?" demanded Lucrece in an injured tone.

"Oh ay! keep what thou hast," said Margaret, calmly munching the first of her own three cakes.

"Who said I had any?"

"I said it. I know thee, as Father saith to Jack. Thou hast made thy bed,--go lie thereon."

Lucrece marched slowly away, looking highly indignant; but before she was quite out of sight, the others saw her slip her hand into her pocket, bring out one of the little cakes, and bite it in two. Margaret laughed when she saw Clare's look of shocked solemnity.

"I said she had them,--the sly-boots!" was her only comment.

Clare finished her cakes, and ran off to Barbara, who, seated under the ash-tree, had witnessed the whole scene.

"Bab, I will not play me with yonder Lucrece. She tells lies, and is a thief."

"Marry La'kin, my poor lamb!" sighed Barbara. "My mind sorely misgiveth me that I have brought thee into a den of thieves. Eh me, if the good Master had but lived a while longer! Of a truth, the Lord's ways be pa.s.sing strange."

Clare had run off again to Margaret, and the last sentence was not spoken to her. But it was answered by somebody.

"Which of the Lord's ways, Barbara Polwhele?"

"Sir?" exclaimed Barbara, looking up surprisedly into the grave, though kindly face of a tall, dark-haired man in clerical garb. "I was but-- eh, but yon eyes! 'Tis never Master Robin?"

Mr Tremayne's smile replied sufficiently that it was.

"And is yonder little Clare Avery?" he asked, with a tender inflection in his voice. "Walter's child,--my brother Walter!"

"Ay, Master Robin, yon is Mistress Clare; and you being shepherd of this flock hereaway, I do adjure you, look well to this little lamb, for I am sore afeard she is here fallen amongst wolves."

"I am not the Shepherd, good friend,--only one of the Shepherd's herd-lads. But I will look to the lamb as He shall speed me. And which of the Lord's ways is so strange unto thee, Barbara?"

"Why, to think that our dear, good Master should die but now, and leave the little lamb to be cast in all this peril."

"Then--'Some of the paths of the Lord are mercy and truth'--doth the verse run thus in thy Bible, Barbara?"

"Nay, not so: but can you understand the same Master Robin?"

"By no means. Wherefore should I?"

Barbara made no answer beyond an appealing look.

"'He knoweth the way that I take.' If I know not so much as one step thereof, what matter? I shall have light to see the next step ere I must set down my foot. That is enough, Barbara, for 'such as keep His covenant,' and I have ever counted thee amongst them."

"Eh, Master Robin, but 'twere easier done to walk in darkness one's self, than to see yon little pet lamb--"

And Barbara's voice faltered.

"Hath somewhat troubled thee specially at this time?"

In answer, she told him what she had just seen.

"And I do trust, Master Robin, I have not ill done to say this unto you, but of a truth I am diseased [uneasy, anxious] touching my jewel, lest she fall into the like evil courses, being to dwell here."

"Thou hast not ill done, friend; nor will I neglect the warning, trust me."

"I thank you much, Master. And how doth good Mistress Thekla? Verily I am but evil-mannered to be thus long ere I ask it."

"She is well, and desiring much to see thee."