e had not heard aright. He was
staring after the last cart as it rolled through the inn-yard gate; his
throat was working, and his eyes were full of tears.

"Why, Nick!" said she, "art crying?"

"Nay," said he, "but very near," and dashed his hand across his face.
"Everything doth happen so all-at-once--and I am na big enough, Cicely.
Oh, Cicely, I would I were a mighty king--I'd make it all up
different somehow!"

"Perhaps thou wilt be some day, Nick," she answered quietly. "Thou'ldst
make a very lovely king. I could be queen; and daddy should be Lord
Admiral, and own the finest play-house in the town."

But Nick was staring at the tap-room door. A voice somewhere had
startled him. The guests were gone, and none was left but the tapster's
knave leaning against the inner wall.

"Thy mother should come to live with us, and thy father, and all thy
kin," said Cicely, dreamily smiling; "and the people would love us,
there would be no more war, and we should be happy forevermore."

But Nick was listening,--not to her,--and his face was a little pale. He
felt a strange, uneasy sense of some one staring at his back. He whirled
about--looked in at the tap-room window. For an instant a peering face
was there; then it was gone--there was only the Dutchman's frowzy wig
and striped woolen cap. But the voice he had heard and the face he had
seen were the voice and the face of Gregory Goole.

"I should love to see thy mother, Nick," said Cicely.

He got up steadily, though his heart was jolting his very ribs. "Thou
shalt right speedily!" said he.

The carts were standing in a line. The carrier came down the steps with
his stirrup-cup in hand. Nick's heart gave a sudden, wild, resolute
leap, and he touched the carrier on the arm. "What will ye charge to
carry two as far as Stratford town?" he asked. His mouth was dry as a
dusty road, for the Dutchman had risen from his seat and was coming
toward the door.

"I do na haul past Oxford," said the man.

"To Oxford, then--how much? Be quick!" Nick thrust his hand into his
breast where he carried the burgesses' chain.

"Eightpence the day, for three days out--two shilling 'tis, and find
yourself; it is an honest fare."

The tapster's knave came down the steps; the Dutchman stood within the
shadow of the door.

"Wilt carry us for this?" Nick cried, and thrust the chain into the
fellow's hands.

He gasped and almost let it fall. "Beshrew my heart! Gadzooks!" said he,
"art t