t to
sing thy song for us again."

Nick pressed his lips tight shut and shook his head. He would not sing
for them again.

"Come, Nick, I've promised Tom Heywood that thou shouldst sing his song;
and, lad, there's no one left in all the land to sing it if thou'lt not.
Tom doth dearly love thee, lad--why, sure, thou hast seen that! And,
Nick, I've promised all the company that thou wouldst sing Tom's song
with us to-night. 'Twill break their hearts if thou wilt not. Come,
Nick, thou'lt sing it for us all, and set old Albans town afire!" said
Carew, pleadingly.

Nick shook his head.

"Come, Nick," said Carew, coaxingly, "we must hear that sweet voice of
thine in Albans town to-night. Come, there's a dear, good lad, and give
us just one little song! Come, act the man and sing, as thou alone in
all the world canst sing, in Albans town this night; and on my word, and
on the remnant of mine honour, I'll leave thee go back to Stratford town
to-morrow morning!"

"To Stratford--to-morrow?" stammered Nick, with a glad, incredulous cry,
while his heart leaped up within him.

"Ay, verily; upon my faith as the fine fag-end of a very proper
gentleman--thou shalt go back to Stratford town to-morrow if thou wilt
but do thy turn with us to-night."

Nick caught the master-player's arm as they rode along, almost crying
for very joy: "Oh, that I will, sir--and do my very best. And, oh,
Master Carew, I ha' thought so ill o' thee! Forgive me, sir; I did na
know thee well."

Carew winced. Hastily throwing the rein to Nick, he left him to master
his own array.

As for Nick, as happy as a lark he learned his new lines as he rode
along, Master Carew saying them over to him from the manuscript and over
again until he made not a single mistake; and was at great pains to
teach him the latest fashionable London way of pronouncing all the
words, and of emphasizing his set phrases. "Nay, nay," he would cry
laughingly, "not that way, lad; but this: 'Good my lord, I bring a
letter from the duke'--as if thou hadst indeed a letter, see, and not an
empty fist. And when thou dost hand it to him, do it thus--and not as if
thou wert about to stab him in the paunch with a cheese-knife!" And at
the end he clapped him upon the back and said again and again that he
loved him, that he was a dear, sweet figure of a lad, and that his voice
among the rest of England's singers, was like clear honey dropping into
a pot of grease.

But it is a long ride f