ce more absorbed in the apparently
never-ending adornment of the refreshment table.

"Thou'lt have no cause to regret this, mistress," said Busy
complacently, "we will be married this very autumn, and I have it in my
mind--an it please the Lord--to go up to London and take secret service
under my Lord Protector himself."

"Secret service, Master Busy ... hem ... I mean Hymn-of-Praise, dear ...
secret service? ... What may that be?"

"'Tis a noble business, Charity," he replied, "and one highly commended
by the Lord: the business of tracking the wicked to their lair, of
discovering evil where 'tis hidden in dark places, conspiracies against
my Lord Protector, adherence to the cause of the banished tyrants and
... and ... so forth."

"Sounds like spying to me," she remarked curtly.

"Spying? ... Spying, didst thou say?" he exclaimed indignantly. "Fie on
thee, Charity, for the thought! Secret service under my Lord Protector
'tis called, and a highly lucrative business too, and one for which I
have remarkable aptitude."

"Indeed?"

"Aye! See the manner in which I find things out, mistress. This house
now ... thou wouldst think 'tis but an ordinary house ... eh?"

His manner changed; the saintliness vanished from his attitude; the
expression of his face became sly and knowing. He came nearer to
Charity, took hold of her wrist, whilst he raised one finger to his
lips.

"Thou wouldst think 'tis an ordinary house ... wouldst thou not?" he
repeated, sinking his voice to a whisper, murmuring right into her ear
so that his breath blew her hair about, causing it to tickle her cheek.

She shuddered with apprehension. His manner was so mysterious.

"Yes ... yes ..." she murmured, terrified.

"But I tell thee that there's something going on," he added
significantly.

"La, Master Busy ... you ... you terrify me!" she said, on the verge of
tears. "What could there be going on?"

Master Busy raised both his hands and with the right began counting off
the fingers of the left.

"Firstly," he began solemnly, "there's an heiress! secondly our
master--poor as a church mouse--thirdly a young scholar--secretary, they
call him, though he writes no letters, and is all day absorbed in his
studies ... Well, mistress," he concluded, turning a triumphant gaze on
her, "tell me, prithee, what happens?"

"What happens, Master Hymn-of-Praise? ... I do not understand. What
does happen?"

"I'll tell thee," he replied sententiously, "