d Christians and
faithful subjects."

"Nay, Meg, it was more than that. We promised right solemnly to submit
us to the Church in all matters, and specially in this, that we did
believe the Sacrament to be Christ's body, according to His words."

"Why, so do we all believe," said Margaret, "_according to His words_.
Have you forgot the tale Father Tye did once tell us at the King's Head,
of my Lady Elizabeth the Queen's sister, that when she was asked what
she did believe touching the Sacrament, she made this answer?

"`Christ was the Word that spake it,
He took the bread, and brake it;
And what that word did make it,
That I believe, and take it.'"

"That was a bit crafty, methinks," said Rose. "I love not such shifts.
I would rather speak out my mind plainly."

"Ay, but if you speak too plainly, you be like to find you in the wrong
place," answered Margaret.

"That would not be the wrong place wherein truth set me," was Rose's
earnest answer. "That were never the wrong place wherein God should be
my company. And if the fire were too warm for my weakness to bear, the
holy angels should maybe fan me with their wings till I came to the
covert of His Tabernacle."

"Well, that's all proper pretty," said Margaret, "and like a book as
ever the parson could talk: but I tell thee what, Rose Allen, thou'lt
sing another tune if ever thou come to Smithfield. See if thou
doesn't."

And Rose answered, "`The word that God putteth in my mouth, that will I
speak.'"

CHAPTER NINE.

COME TO THE PREACHING.

"Dorothy Denny, art thou never going to set that kettle on?"

"Oh, deary me! a body never has a bit of peace!"

"That's true enough of me, but it's right false of thee. Thou's nought
but peace all day long, for thou never puts thyself out. I dare be
bounden, if the Queen's Grace and all her noble company were to sup in
this kitchen at five o' the clock, I should come in and find never a
kettle nor a pan on at the three-quarter past. If thy uncle wasn't a
sloth, and thine aunt a snail, I'm not hostess of the King's Head at
Colchester, thou'rt no more worth thy salt--nay, salt, forsooth! thou'rt
not worth the water. Salt's one and fourpence the raser, and that's a
deal too much to give for thee. Now set me the kettle on, and then teem
out that rubbish in the yard, and run to the nests to see if the hens
have laid: don't be all day and night about it! Run, Doll!--Eh deary
me! I might as well have