out the sunset. Sometimes Nick
waked and sometimes he slept, he scarce knew which nor cared; nor did he
hear the bolts grate cautiously, or see the yellow candle-light steal in
across the gloom.

"Boy!" said a soft little voice.

He started up and looked around.

For an instant he thought that he was dreaming, and was glad to think
that he would waken by and by from what had been so sad a dream, and
find himself safe in his own little bed in Stratford town. For the
little maid who stood in the doorway was such a one as his eyes had
never looked upon before.

She was slight and graceful as a lily of the field, and her skin was
white as the purest wax, save where a damask rose-leaf red glowed
through her cheeks. Her black hair curled about her slender neck. Her
gown was crimson, slashed with gold, cut square across the breast and
simply made, with sleeves just elbow-long, wide-mouthed, and lined with
creamy silk. Her slippers, too, were of crimson silk, high-heeled,
jaunty bits of things; her silken stockings black. In one hand she held
a tall brass candlestick, and through the fingers of the other the
candle-flame made a ruddy glow like the sun in the heart of a hollyhock.
And in the shadow of her hand her eyes looked out, as Nick said long
afterward, like stars in a summer night.

Thinking it was all a dream, he sat and stared at her.

"Boy!" she said again, quite gently, but with a quaint little air of
reproof, "where are thy manners?"

Nick got up quickly and bowed as best he knew how. If not a dream, this
was certainly a princess--and perchance--his heart leaped up--perchance
she came to set him free! He wondered who had told her of him? Diccon
Field, perhaps, whose father had been Simon Attwood's partner till he
died, last Michaelmas. Diccon was in London now, printing books, he had
heard. Or maybe it was John, Hal Saddler's older brother. No, it could
not be John, for John was with a carrier; and Nick had doubts if
carriers were much acquainted at court.

Wondering, he stared, and bowed again.

"Why, boy," said she, with a quaint air of surprise, "thou art a very
pretty fellow! Why, indeed, thou lookest like a good boy! Why wilt thou
be so bad and break my father's heart?"

"Break thy father's heart?" stammered Nick. "Pr'ythee, who is thy
father, Mistress Princess?"

"Nay," said the little maid, simply; "I am no princess. I am Cicely
Carew."

"Cicely Carew?" cried Nick, clenching his fists. "Art tho