u the daughter
of that wicked man, Gaston Carew?"

"My father is not wicked!" said she, passionately, drawing back from the
threshold with her hand trembling upon the latch. "Thou shalt not say
that--I will not speak with thee at all!"

"I do na care! If Master Gaston Carew is thy father, he is the wickedest
man in the world!"

"Why, fie, for shame!" she cried, and stamped her little foot. "How
darest thou say such a thing?"

"He hath stolen me from home," exclaimed Nick, indignantly; "and I shall
never see my mother any more!" With that he choked, and hid his face in
his arm against the wall.

The little maid looked at him with an air of troubled surprise, and,
coming into the room, touched him on the arm. "There," she said
soothingly, "don't cry!" and stroked him gently as one would a little
dog that was hurt. "My father will send thee home to thy mother, I know;
for he is very kind and good. Some one hath lied to thee about him."

Nick wiped his swollen eyes dubiously upon his sleeve; yet the little
maid seemed positive. Perhaps, after all, there was a mistake somewhere.

"Art hungry, boy?" she asked suddenly, spying the empty trencher on the
floor. "There is a pasty and a cake in the buttery, and thou shalt have
some of it if thou wilt not cry any more. Come, I cannot bear to see
thee cry--it makes me weep myself; and that will blear mine eyes, and
father will feel bad."

"If he but felt as bad as he hath made me feel--" began Nick,
wrathfully; but she laid her little hand across his mouth. It was a very
white, soft, sweet little hand.

"Come," said she; "thou art hungry, and it hath made thee cross!" and,
with no more ado, took him by the hand and led him down the corridor
into a large room where the last daylight shone with a smoky glow.

The walls were wainscoted with many panels, dark, old, and mysterious;
and in a burnished copper brazier at the end of the room cinnamon,
rosemary, and bay were burning with a pleasant smell. Along the walls
were joined-work chests for linen and napery, of brass-bound oak--one a
black, old, tragic sea-chest, carved with grim faces and weird griffins,
that had been cast up by the North Sea from the wreck of a Spanish
galleon of war. The floor was waxed in the French fashion, and was so
smooth that Nick could scarcely keep his feet. The windows were high up
in the wall, with their heads among the black roof-beams, which with
their grotesquely carven brackets were half l