nt the sot will be not far away. Fetch me his head, comrade;
and I vow thou shalt share my noble. Get thee gone."

That moment Jeannette gripped my arm and pointed to a figure which
slouched away from us towards the fire. I got but one glimpse of him.
He may have been anyone; for the crowd was spreading fast. Yet
Jeannette and I both fancied the form was like that of Peter Stoupe,
whom we had already seen once in the crowd that evening.

"Poor Peter," said I, "no doubt he envies me my charge of you,
Jeannette."

She disengaged herself from my arm, and put her hand on my sleeve.

"Let us begone," said she, uneasily. "I am sorry I came here."

So I left Tom Price sitting on the grass, singing to himself; and full
of my great news, yet troubled at Jeannette's speech I walked with her
silently homewards.

As we neared Temple Bar, I could not refrain from questioning her.

"You are silent, Jeannette?" said I.

"The better company for you," said she.

"Are you tired?"

"Yes."

"And vexed?"

"Yes."

"Because Peter--if it was Peter--saw me with my arm around thee?"

"He would not know that it was only because I feared the drunken man,"
said she.

"He would suspect me, instead, of being thy sweetheart?" asked I.

"Ay," said she, "Peter hath a long tongue."

"What if he suspect me aright, Jeannette?"

I felt the hand on my arm give a little start, as she dropped her eyes,
and quickened her flagging steps.

She said nothing. But you might have heard the beating of my heart, as
I looked down at her, and laid my hand on hers.

"If Peter guessed aright," repeated I, "what then, Jeannette?"

This time her hand lay very quiet, and her footsteps grew slower, till
at last they stood still.

Then she lifted her head and looked me in the face.

"Then, Humphrey, I should not mind what anybody said."

So all was peace betwixt us two; and we were sorry when our walk was
ended.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

HOW THERE CAME VISITORS TO MASTER WALGRAVE'S HOUSE.

So occupied was I with my new joy, that for a day or two what I had
heard from drunken Tom Price in Moorfields slipped me. Or, if I thought
of it, it seemed all was well. For I gathered from his wild talk that
the maiden--left no doubt by her harsh step-dame to fight her own
battles--had fled from the Captain's persecutions with the help of Tom,
to Canterbury, where (as I knew), was the convent school in which she
had been brought up. Here she was safe