sed it? Had it not also, for
fear of accident (such was the fatherly forethought of the Abbot), been
baptized at once by a priest who was waiting, under the names of John
Christopher Foterell, John after its grandfather and Christopher after
its father, with Foterell for a surname, since the Abbot would not allow
that it should be called Harflete, being, as he averred, base-born?

So this child was born, and Mother Megges swore that of all the two
hundred and three that she had issued into the world it was the finest,
nine and a half pounds in weight at the very least. Also, as its voice
and movements testified, it was lusty and like to live, for did not the
Flounder, in sight of all the wondering nuns, hold it up hanging by its
hands to her two fat forefingers, and afterwards drink a whole quart of
spiced ale to its health and long life?

But if the babe was like to live, Cicely was like to die. Indeed, she
was very, very ill, and perhaps would have passed away had it not been
for a device of Emlyn's. For when she was at her worst and the Flounder,
shaking her head and saying that she could do no more, had departed to
her eternal ale and a nap, Emlyn crept up and took her mistress's cold
hand.

"Darling," she said, "hear me," but Cicely did not stir. "Darling," she
repeated, "hear me, I have news for you of your husband."

Cicely's white face turned a little on the pillow and her blue eyes
opened.

"Of my husband?" she whispered. "Why, he is gone, as I soon shall be.
What news of him?"

"That he is not gone, that he lives, or so I believe, though heretofore
I have hid it from you."

The head was lifted for a moment, and the eyes stared at her with
wondering joy.

"Do you trick me, Nurse? Nay, you would never do that. Give me the milk,
I want it now. I'll listen. I promise you I'll not die till you have
told me. If Christopher lives why should I die who only hoped to find
him?"

So Emlyn whispered all she knew. It was not much, only that Christopher
had not been buried in the grave where he was said to be buried, and
that he had been taken wounded aboard the ship _Great Yarmouth_, of the
fate of which ship fortunately she had heard nothing. Still, slight as
they might be, to Cicely these tidings were a magic medicine, for did
they not mean the rebirth of hope, hope that for nine long months had
been dead and buried with Christopher? From that moment she began to
mend.

When the Flounder, having slept off h