"And your childre, Master Robin,--have you not?"

"I have five childre, Barbara, two sons and three daughters; but of them Christ hath housen four in His garner, and hath left but one in my sight. And that seemed unto us a very strange way; yet was it mercy and truth."

"Eh, but I could ne'er repine at a babe's dying!" said Barbara, shaking her head. "Do but think what they 'scape of this weary world's troubles, Master Robin."

"Ah, Barbara, 'tis plain thou never hadst a child," said Mr Tremayne, sighing. "I grant all thou hast said. And yet, when it cometh to the pa.s.s, the most I can do is to lift mine head and hold my peace, 'because G.o.d did it.' G.o.d witteth best how to try us all."

"Nay, if He would but not try yon little lambkin!"

"An unhappy prayer, Barbara; for, that granted, she should never come forth as gold.--But I must be on my way to give Jack his Latin lesson.

When thou canst find thy way to my dwelling, all we shall be full fain to see thee. Good morrow."

When Clare was undergoing her ordeal in the schoolroom, an hour later, Barbara set out on her visit to the parsonage. But she missed her way through the park, and instead of coming out of the great gates, near the foot-bridge, she found herself at a little gate, opening on the road, from which neither church nor village could be seen as landmarks. There was no cottage in sight at which to ask the road to the parsonage.

While Barbara stood and looked round her, considering the matter, she perceived a boy of about twelve years old slowly approaching her from the right hand,--evidently a gentleman's son, from his dress, which, though very simple, was of materials indicative of good birth. He had long dark brown hair, which curled over his shoulders, and almost hid his face, bent down over a large book, for he was reading as he walked.

Barbara waited until he came up to her.

"Give you good morrow, Master! I be loth to come betwixt you and your studies, but my need presseth me to pray of you the way unto Master Tremayne's house the parson?"

The lad started on hearing a voice, hastily closed his book, and lifted a pair of large, dreamy brown eyes to Barbara's face. But he seemed quite at a loss to recall what he had been asked to do.

"You would know?"--he said inquiringly.

"I would know, young Master," returned Barbara boldly, "if your name be not Tremayne?"

"Ay so," a.s.sented the boy, with a rather surprised look. "My name is Arthur Tremayne." [A fict.i.tious person.]

"And you be son unto Master Tremayne the parson?"

"Truly."

"Verily I guessed so much, for his eyes be in your head," said Barbara quaintly. "But your mouth and nose be Mrs Thekla's. Eh, dear heart, what changes life bringeth! Why, it seemeth me but yestre'en that your father was no bigger than you. And every whit as much given to his book, I warrant you. Pray you, is my mistress your mother at home?"

"Ay, you shall find her there now," said the boy, as he tucked the big book under his arm, and began to walk on in Barbara's company. "I count you be our old friend, Barbara Polwhele, that is come with little Mistress Clare? My mother will be fain to see you."

Barbara was highly gratified to find that Arthur Tremayne had heard of her already. The two trudged onwards together, and in a few minutes reached the ivy-covered parsonage, standing in its pretty flower-garden.

Arthur preceded Barbara into the house, laid down his book on the hall window-seat, and opening a door which led to the back part of the house, appealed to an unseen person within.

"Mother! here is Mistress Barbara Polwhele."

"Barbara Polwhele!" said a voice in reply,--a voice which Barbara had not heard for nineteen years, yet which time had so little altered that she recognised at once the Thekla Rose of old. And in another moment Mrs Tremayne stood before her.

Her aspect was more changed than her voice. The five terrible years of the Marian persecution had swept over her head in early youth, and their bitter anxieties and forebodings left her, at the age of nineteen, a white, wan, slender, delicate girl. But now a like number of years, spent in calm, happy work, had left their traces also, and Mrs Tremayne looked what she was, a gentle, contented woman of thirty-eight, with more bloom on her cheek than she had ever worn in youth, and the piteous expression of distressed suspense entirely gone from her eyes.

"Eh, Mistress Thekla!" was Barbara's greeting.

"I be cruel glad to see you. Methinks you be gone so many years younger as you must needs be elder."

"Nay, truly, for I were then but a babe in the cradle," was the laughing answer. "Thou art a losenger [flatterer], Barbara."

"In very deed," returned Barbara inconsistently, "I could have known you any whither."

"And me also?" demanded another voice, as a little lively old lady trotted out of the room which Mrs Tremayne had just left. "Shouldst thou have known me any whither, Barbara Polwhele?"

"Marry La'kin! if 'tis not Mistress Rose!" [Name fact, character fict.i.tious.]

"Who but myself? I dwell with Thekla since I am widow. And I make the cakes, as Arthur knows," added Mrs Rose, cheerily, patting her grandson's head; "but if I should go hence, there should be a famine, _ma foi_!"

"A famine of _pain d'epices_" a.s.sented Mrs Tremayne, smiling. "Ah, Mother dear, thou spoilest the lad."

"Who ever knew a grandame to do other?" observed Barbara. "More specially the only one."

"The only one!" echoed his mother, softly, stroking his long hair.

"There be four other, Barbara,--not lost, but waiting."

"Now, Barbara, come in hither," said Mrs Rose, bustling back into the room, apparently desirous of checking any sad thoughts on the part of her daughter; "sit thou down, and tell us all about the little Clare, and the dear Master Avery, and all. I listen and mix my cake, all one."

Barbara followed her, and found herself in the kitchen. She had not done wondering at the change--not in Mrs Tremayne, but in her mother.

Nineteen years before, Barbara had known Marguerite Rose, a crushed, suffering woman, with no shadow of mirth about her. It seemed unnatural and improper to hear her laugh. But Mrs Rose's nature was that of a child,--simple and versatile: she lived in the present, whether for joy or pain.

Mrs Rose finished gathering her materials, and proceeded to mix her _pain d'epices_, or Flemish gingerbread, while Mrs Tremayne made Barbara sit down in a large chair furnished with soft cushions. Arthur came too, having picked up his big book, and seated himself in the window-seat with it, his long hair falling over his face as he bent down over it but whether he were reading or listening was known only to himself.

The full account of John Avery's end was given to these his dearest friends, and there was a good deal of conversation about other members of the family: and Barbara heard, to her surprise, that a cousin of Clare, a child rather older than herself, was shortly coming to live at the parsonage. Lysken van Barnevelt [a fict.i.tious person], like Clare, was an only child and an orphan; and Mr Tremayne purposed to pay his debt to the Averys by the adoption of Frances Avery's child. But Barbara was rather dismayed when she heard that Lysken would not at first be able to talk to her cousin, since her English was of the most fragmentary description.

"She will soon learn," said Mrs Tremayne.

"And until she shall learn, I only can talk to her," added Mrs Rose, laughing. "_Ay de mi_! I must pull up my Flemish out of my brains. It is so deep down, I do wonder if it will come. It is--let me see!-- forty, fifty--_ma foi_! 'tis nigh sixty years since I talk Flemish with my father!"

"And now, tell us, what manner of child is Clare?" asked Mrs Tremayne.

"The sweetest little maid in all the world, and of full good conditions [disposition], saving only that she lacketh breeding [education]

somewhat."

"The which Mistress Rachel shall well furnish her withal. She is a throughly good teacher. But I will go and see the sweeting, so soon as I may."

"Now, Mrs Thekla, of your goodness, do me to wit what manner of folk be these that we be fallen in withal? It were easier for me to govern both Mrs Clare and mine own self, if I might but, know somewhat thereof aforetime."

"Truly, good friend, they be nowise ill folk," said Mrs Tremayne, with a quiet smile. "Sir Thomas is like to be a good father unto the child, for he hath a kindly nature. Only, for G.o.dliness, I fear I may not say over much. But he is an upright man, and a worthy, as men go in this world. And for my Lady his wife, you know her as well as I."

"Marry La'kin, and if you do love her no better!--"

"She is but young," said Mrs Tremayne, excusingly.

"What heard I?" inquired Mrs Rose, looking up from her cookery. "I did think thou hadst been a Christian woman, Barbara Polwhele."

"Nay, verily, Mistress Rose!--what mean you?" demanded the astonished Barbara.

"_Bon_!--Is it not the second part of the duty of a Christian woman to love her neighbour as herself?"