xultation--as we in this nineteenth century can
scarcely imagine for such an event. For the last eight years of the
reign of Henry the Eighth, England had been in slavery--"fast bound in
misery and iron." Every year it had grown heavier. Murmuring was
treated as rebellion, and might have entailed death. To know that Henry
was dead was to be free--to be at liberty to speak as a man thought, and
to act as a man believed right.

"Ay," resumed Avery gravely, "King Henry the Eight is gone unto the
mercy of God. How much mercy God could show him, let us not presume to
think. We can only know this--that it was as much as might stand with
His glory."

Dr Thorpe and John Avery left Tremayne together, for both were on their
way to Crowe. A walk of twenty minutes brought them to the house of the
latter, an erection of some fifty years' standing. Bradmond comprised
not only the house, but a large garden and a paddock, in which Avery's
horse Bayard took his ease. There was also a small farm attached, with
its requisite buildings; and when the gentlemen arrived, Tom [Note 4],
the general factotum, was meandering about the flower-garden, under the
impression that he was at work, while Avery's little daughter, Kate
[Note 4] aged nearly four years, was trotting after him from one spot to
another, also under the impression that she was affording him material
assistance in his labours.

John Avery brought his guest into the hall, then the usual family
sitting-room when particular privacy was not desired. Here they were
met by a lady, a little under middle height, with a fair pale
complexion, but dark brown eyes and hair, her manners at once very quiet
and yet very cordial. This was Isoult Avery.

In due time the next morning the party set forth,--namely, John and
Isoult Avery, and Dr Thorpe,--and after two days' travelling reached
Crowe.

Crowe was a smaller house than Bradmond, less pleasantly situated, and
with more confined grounds. The door was opened by a girl who, to judge
from her dress and appearance, was a maid-of-all-work, and with whom
tidiness was apparently not a cardinal virtue.

"Good morrow, Deb [Note 4]; how fareth the child?"

"Good lack, Mistress!" was all that could be extracted from Deb.

"Get thee down to the kitchen for a slattern as thou art, and wash thee
and busk [dress] thee ere thou open the door to any again!" said a
rather shrill, yet not unpleasant, voice behind Deb; and that damsel
dis