round the other little girl's neck, she gave a long
gasp of delight, a gasp that ended in an irrepressible sigh. For, a
moment later, this dazzling vision, with its dancing eyes, delicate
features, and glowing cheeks, was lost to sight. All through the
remainder of the service it stayed hidden in the depths of the high
old family pew, whence nothing could be seen save the top of the
Squire's silver head, rising occasionally, like an erratic half moon,
over the edge of the dark oak wood.

Not another glimpse was to be had of the white satin princess; there
was no one to look at but the ordinary village folk whom Cecily could
see every day of her life: young George Fox, for instance, the
Weaver's son, who was staring straight before him as usual, paying not
the smallest heed to the entrance of all these marvellous beings.
Fancy staring at the marble tomb erected by a long dead Lady Jocosa,
and never even noticing her living namesake of to-day, with all her
sparkles and flushes! Truly the Weaver's son was a strange lad, as the
whole village knew.

A strange boy indeed, Joyce Purefoy thought in her turn, as, passing
close by him on her way out of church, she happened to look up and to
meet the steady gaze of the young eyes that were at the same time so
piercing and yet so far away. She could not see his features clearly,
since the sun, pouring in through a tall lancet window behind him,
dazzled her eyes. Yet, even through the blurr of light, she felt the
clear look that went straight through and found the real Joyce lying
deep down somewhere, though hidden beneath all the finery with which
she had hoped to dazzle the village children.

Late that same evening it was no fairy princess but a contrite little
girl who approached her mother's side at bed-time.

'Forgive me, mother mine, I did pick just a few cherries from the tree
above the moat,' she whispered hesitatingly 'I was hot and they were
juicy. Then, when you and my father crossed the bridge on our way to
church and asked me had I taken any, I,--no--I did not exactly forget,
but I suppose I disremembered, and I said I had not had one.'

'Jocosa!' exclaimed her mother sternly: 'What! You a Purefoy and my
daughter, yet not to be trusted to tell the truth! For the cherries,
they are a small matter, I gave you plenty myself later, but to lie
about even a trifle, it is that, that I mind.'

The little girl hung her head still lower. 'I know,' she said, 'it was
shamef