for it in Will Shakspere's name; for he is the sweetest
fellow of us all."

His voice was simple, frank, and free--so different from the mad tone in
which he had just been ranting that Nick caught his breath
with surprise.

"Nay, lad, look not so dashed," said the master-player, merrily; "that
was only old Jem Burbage's mighty tragic style; and I--I am only Gaston
Carew, hail-fellow-well-met with all true hearts. Be known to me, lad;
what is thy name? I like thy open, pretty face."

Nick flushed. "Nicholas Attwood is my name, sir."

"Nicholas Attwood? Why, it is a good name. Nick Attwood,--young Nick,--I
hope Old Nick will never catch thee--upon my word I do, and on the
remnant of mine honour! Thou hast taken a player's part like a man, and
thou art a good fellow, Nicholas Attwood, and I love thee. So thou art
going to Coventry to see the players act? Surely thine is a nimble wit
to follow fancy nineteen miles. Come; I am going to Coventry to join my
fellows. Wilt thou go with me, Nick, and dine with us this night at the
best inn in all Coventry--the Blue Boar? Thou hast quite plucked up my
downcast heart for me, lad, indeed thou hast; for I was sore of
Stratford town--and I shall not soon forget thy plucky fending for our
own sweet Will. Come, say thou wilt go with me."

"Indeed, sir," said Nick, bowing again, his head all in a whirl of
excitement at this wonderful adventure, "indeed I will, and that right
gladly, sir." And with heart beating like a trip-hammer he walked along,
cap in hand, not knowing that his head was bare.

The master-player laughed a simple, hearty laugh. "Why, Nick," said he,
laying his hand caressingly upon the boy's shoulder, "I am no such great
to-do as all that--upon my word, I'm not! A man of some few parts,
perhaps, not common in the world; but quite a plain fellow, after all.
Come, put off this high humility and be just friendly withal. Put on thy
cap; we are but two good faring-fellows here."

So Nick put on his cap, and they went on together, Nick in the seventh
heaven of delight.

About a mile beyond Stratford, Welcombe wood creeps down along the left.
Just beyond, the Dingles wind irregularly up from the foot-path below to
the crest of Welcombe hill, through straggling clumps and briery
hollows, sweet with nodding bluebells, ash, and hawthorn.

Nick and the master-player paused a moment at the top to catch their
breath and to look back.

Stratford and the valley of the Avon