alighted and was now passing
swiftly under the high stone arch of the gateway. Never did she come
through that gate without a flash of remembrance of the first time she
entered there, leaning on her husband's arm, a bride of seventeen
summers, younger than her own fair Margaret now. She entered, this
time, leaning on the arm of tall Bridget, walking as if she were a
trifle weary, yet stooping to pick up little Susanna and to cover her
with kisses as she moved up the path surrounded by her cloud of girls.

'Not the house, maids,' she cried, 'the yew-trees first! I see my
Margaret waiting there. Your news, how marvellous soever, must wait
until I have greeted my right-hand daughter and learned how she
fares.'

'How art thou, dear Heart?' she enquired, as she stooped down and
kissed her eldest daughter, and sat down beside her. 'Hath thy knee
pained thee a little less this afternoon?'

'Much less,' answered Margaret gaily, 'in fact I had almost forgotten
it, and was about to rise and welcome you with the rest, when a sudden
ache reminded me that I must not run yet awhile.'

Mistress Fell shook her head. 'I fear that I shall have to take thee
to London and to Wapping for the waters some day. I cannot have my
bird unable to fly like the rest of the brood, and obliged to wait
behind with a clipped wing.'

'Young Margrett,' as she was called, to distinguish her from her
mother, laughed aloud. 'Nay now, sweet mother, 'tis nothing,' she
replied. 'Let us think of more cheerful things. In truth we have much
to tell you, for we have had an afternoon of visitors and many
happenings in thy absence.'

'Visitors?' A slight furrow showed itself in the elder Margaret's
smooth forehead. 'Well, that is not strange, since the door of
Swarthmoor stands ever open to welcome guests, as all the country
knows. Still I would that I had been at home, or thy father. Who were
the visitors, daughter?'

It was Bridget who answered.

'My father hath often said that there has been scarce a day without a
visitor at Swarthmoor since he first brought you here as its
mistress,' she began primly, 'but in all these years, mother, I doubt
you have never set eyes on such an one as our guest of to-day. Priest
Lampitt said the same.'

'Priest Lampitt? Hath he been here? And I not at home. Truly, it
grieves me, children, to have missed our good neighbour. Did he then
bring a stranger with him?'

'No, No, No,' a chorus of dissent broke from the girls