treets of London were
hushed and still. By the light of the moon might be discerned a man in
traveller's dress, walking slowly along Fleet Street, and looking up at
the houses, as if uncertain which of them would prove the one he sought.
The traveller, though he looks much older, and his face wears a weary,
worn expression, we recognise as our old friend Richard Pynson.
Suddenly, in the midst of his search, Richard stopped and looked up.
From an oriel window, directly above his head, a faint sound of singing
reached him--an air which he instantly recognised as "The Palmer's
hymn," sung by the pilgrims to Jerusalem on their journey to the Holy
Land. The voice of the singer, though low, was so clear, that the words
of the hymn were floated distinctly to his ear.

"Holy City, happy City,
Built on Christ, and sure as He,
From my weary journeying,
From the wastes, I cry to thee;
Longing, sighing, hasting, crying,
Till within thy walls I be.
Ah! what happy, happy greeting
For the guests thy gates who see!
Ah! what blessed, blessed meeting
Have thy citizens in thee!
Ah! those glittering walls how fair,
Jasper shene and ruby blee.
Never harm, nor sin, nor danger,
Thee can tarnish, crystal sea;
Never woe, nor pain, nor sorrow,
Thee can enter, City free!"

The voice ceased, and Richard Pynson, without any further doubt or
trouble, applied at once for admittance at the gate of the house whence
the music had issued. He could never mistake the voice of Margery
Lovell. The old porter, half asleep, came to the gate, and,
sentinel-like, inquired, "Who goes there?"

"A friend, a messenger from Dame Lovell, who would fain have speech, if
he may, of the Lady Marnell."

As soon as the porter heard the name of Dame Lovell, he threw open the
gate. "Enter, friend." The ponderous gate swung to again, and the old
man slowly preceded Richard through the archway to the door of the
house, and up the wide staircase. He ushered him into a room panelled
with oak, where he stirred up the decaying embers of the fire, requested
him to be seated, and left the room. At the door of the adjoining
chamber, Richard heard him softly whisper, "Mistress Alice! Mistress
Alice!"

A gentle movement in the room followed, and then Richard heard the
familiar voice of Alice Jordan.

"Hush! good Christopher," said she, in a low tone; "the boy sleepeth at
last--wake him not. What wouldst?"

"There is here a messe