ourtesy, and said:

"Mistress bade me tell ye, Miss Mary, she would fain have ye wait on her
at once. She's in the inn parlor." Then, after a pause: "Sure she hath
matter of moment for ye, I warrant, or she'd not look so solemn
satisfied."

Phoebe was strongly tempted to decline this peremptory invitation, but
curiosity threw its weight into the balance with complaisance, and with
a dignified lift of the chin she turned to the door.

"Show the way, Betty," she said.

Through several long corridors full of perplexing turns and varied by
many a little flight of steps, the two young women made their way to the
principal parlor of the inn, where they found Mistress Burton standing
expectantly before a slow log fire.

Phoebe's worthy step-mother was a dame of middle age, ruddy,
black-haired, and stout. Her loud voice and sudden movements betrayed a
great fund of a certain coarse energy, and, as her step-daughter now
entered the parlor, she was fanning her flushed face with an open
letter. Her expression was one of triumph only half-concealed by
ill-assumed commiseration.

"Aha, lass!" she cried, as she caught sight of Phoebe, "art here,
then? Here are news in sooth--news for--" She broke off and turned
sharply upon Betty, who stood by the door with mouth and ears wide open.

"Leave the room, Betty!" she exclaimed. "Am I to have every lazy jade in
London prying and eavesdropping? Trot--look alive!"

She strode toward the reluctant maid and, with a good-natured push,
hastened her exit. Then, closing the door, she turned again toward
Phoebe, who had seated herself by the fire.

"Well, Polly," she resumed, "art still bent on thy foppish lover, lass?
Not mended since yesternight--what?"

A cool slow inclination of Phoebe's head was the sole response.

"Out and alas!" the dame continued, tossing her head with mingled pique
and triumph. "'Tis a sad day for thee and thine, then! This Sir Guy of
thine is as good as dead, girl! Thy popinjay is a traitor, and his
crimes have found him out!"

"A traitor!"

Phoebe stood erect with one hand on her heart.

Dame Burton repressed a smile and continued with a slow shake of the
head:

"Ay, girl; a traitor to her blessed Majesty the Queen. His brother hath
been discovered in traitorous correspondence with the rebel O'Neill, and
is on his way to the Tower. Sir Guy's arrest hath been ordered, and the
two brothers will lose their heads together."

Very pale, Phoebe stood with