"How so," asked Mr Flint, pursing up his lips, "without he make us a gift of his riches?"

"Dear heart alive!" suddenly e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mistress Flint, turning round on Helen. "How many a score o' times must I tell thee, Nell, that to lay thy knife and spoon the one across the other is the unluckiest thing in all this world, saving only the breaking of a steel gla.s.s [looking-gla.s.s], and a winding-sheet in the candle? Lay them straight along this minute, child! Dear, dear; but to think of it!"

Helen, in some perturbation, altered her knife and spoon to the required positions.

"Now, Agnes, dear heart, prithee get some flesh o' thy bones!" said Mistress Flint, returning to her usual cheery manner. "Good lack! I love not to see a maid so like to a scarecrow as thou. Come now, another shive of mutton? well, then, a piece o' th' pasty--do! Eh, in good sooth, thou mayest well look white. Now, Will and d.i.c.kon, lads, 'tis time ye were abed."

Will and d.i.c.kon, thus addressed, promptly knelt down, one on each side of his mother, and Will proceeded to gabble over his prayers, followed by d.i.c.kon with articulate sounds which had no other merit than that of bearing some resemblance to the words in question.

The boys commenced by crossing themselves, then they raced through the Paternoster, the Angelical Salutation, and the Creed, all in Latin; of course without the faintest idea of any meaning. They then repeated a short prayer in English, entreating the Virgin, their guardian angels, and their patron saints, to protect them during the night. This done, Will rattled off half a dozen lines (carefully emphasising the insignificant words), which alone of all the proceeding had either interest or meaning in his eyes.

"Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Bless the bed that I lie on: Four corners to my bed, Four angels at their head-- One to read, and one to write, And two to guard my bed at night."

"Good lads!" said Mistress Flint, as she rose and restored the crucifix which she had been holding before the boys to its usual place.

"Mother!" said Will, who was inconveniently intelligent, "who be Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John? Doth it mean Luke Dobbs, and Father?"

Mr Flint indulged himself in a quiet laugh.

"Nay, dear heart!" answered his mother. "Those be the holy Apostles, that writ the Evangels."

"What be the Evangels, Mother?"

"Did ever one see such a lad to put questions?" demanded Mistress Flint.

"Why, child, they be writ in the great Bible, that lieth chained in the Minster."

"What be they about, Mother?"

"Come, lad, if I tarry to answer all thy talk, thou shalt not be abed this even," responded Mistress Flint discreetly; for this was a query which she would have found it hard to answer; and with a playful show of peremptoriness, she drove Will and d.i.c.kon upstairs to the bedchamber, in which slept the five boys of the family.

There was a minute's silence, only broken by the movements of Helen and Anne, who were putting away the bowls, jugs, and trenchers which had been used at supper, when suddenly Mr Flint said--to n.o.body in particular--

"What _be_ they about?"

His daughters looked up, and then resumed their occupation, with a shake of the head from Anne, and a little laugh from Helen.

"Methinks, Master," said Agnes rather diffidently, "'tis about G.o.d, and His love to men."

"What thereabout?" replied he, continuing to look into the fire.

"Why, Master," said Agnes, "surely you do wit better than I."

"Well, I wit nought thereabout, nor never want," said Anne a little pettishly. "'Twill be time enough when I have the years o' my grandame, I guess, to make me crabbed and gloomsome."

Agnes looked at her in amazement.

"Nan," said her father, "I heard thee this morrow a-singing of a love-song."

"Well, so may you yet again," said she, laughing.

"That made thee not gloomsome, trow?" he asked.

"Never a whit! how should it?" replied Anne, still laughing.

"Let be! but 'tis queer," said he, rising. "Man's love is merry gear; but G.o.d's love is crabbed stuff. 'Tis a strange world, my maids."

Both Helen and Anne broke into a peal of laughter; but Mr Flint was grave enough. He walked through the kitchen, and out at the front door, without saying more.

"What hath come o'er Father of late?" said Helen. "He is fallen to ask as queer questions as Will."

"What know I?" replied Anne, "or care, for the matter of that. Come, Nell, let us sing a bit, to cheer us!"

It struck Agnes that there was not much want of cheer in that house; but Helen readily responded to her sister's wish, and they struck up a popular song.

"The hunt is up, the hunt is up, The hunt is up and away, And Harry our King is gone hunting, To bring his deer to bay.

"The east is bright with morning light, And darkness it is fled, And the merry horn wakes up the morn To leave his idle bed.

"Behold the skies with golden dyes Are glowing all around, The gra.s.s is green, and so are the treen, All laughing at the sound."

The sisters sang well, and Agnes enjoyed the music. This song was followed by others, and Mistress Flint, coming down, joined in; and the eldest son, Ned, made his appearance and did the same, till there was almost a concert. At last Mistress Flint stopped the harmony, by declaring that she could not keep awake five minutes longer; and all parties made the best of their way to bed.

Mistress Winter was found, on the following morning, to have recovered as much of her temper as she was usually in the habit of recovering.

That Joan had lost hers was nothing new; it was rarely the case that both mother and daughter were in an amiable mood together. The former received Agnes with her customary amenities, merely suggesting, with pleasantry of her own kind, that of course 'twould be too heavy a toil for her gracious madamship to carry the water-pails to Horsepool--the spring in West Smithfield which supplied Cow Lane--and that so soon as she could hear tell of a gentlewoman lacking of a service, she would engage her at ten pound by the month to wait of her worshipfulness.

Agnes made no answer in words; she only took up the pails quietly and went out. As she came up to Horsepool, she spied her friend Mistress Flint, bent on a similar errand, coming up c.o.c.k Lane.

"Dear heart, Agnes!" cried the latter. "Is there none save thee to bear those heavy pails of water? Methinks yon lazy Joan might lift one, and be none the worsen. She hath the strength of a horse, and thou barely so much as a robin."

Agnes smiled her thanks for her friend's sympathy, as she let down the water-pails.

"I am used to the same, Mistress Flint, I thank you."

"Go to,--wert thou at the Cross t' other morrow? Methought I saw thy face in the throng."

A light broke over the face, but Agnes only said, "Ay."

"How liked thee yon Friar's discourse?"

"It liked me well."

"Marry, thus said Cicely Marvell, that dwelleth by me. But for me, I saw none so much therein to make ado o'er. 'G.o.d loveth men'--ay, to be sure He doth so: and 'we should love G.o.d'--why, of course we so should, and do. Forsooth, what then, I pray you?"

"Why, then, much comfort, as meseemeth," answered Agnes.

"Comfort!" repeated Mrs Flint, looking at her. "Ay, poor soul, I dare say thou hast need. But I lack no comfort at this present, the blessed Sacrament be thanked! I have enough and to spare."

And, half laughing, with a farewell nod, Mrs Flint took up her full pail, and trudged away. With some surprise Agnes realised that to this cheerful, healthy, prosperous woman, the ray of light which was making her whole soul glad, was not worth opening the windows to behold; the wine of Paradise which brimmed her cup with joy, was only common water.

Perhaps, before that light could make a happy heart glad, other lights must be put out; before the water could be changed to wine, other conduits must run dry. It was well for Agnes Stone that she had nothing wherewith to quench her thirst but the cup of salvation, and no light to shine upon her pathway but the light of life.