norant Agnes, who had
never in her life been ten miles from Lincoln, it sounded almost as
tremendous an idea as being asked to go to the moon.

The Bishop smiled. He had been to Paris and Lyons.

"Ay, even to London town. I do indeed mean it, my daughter. There is,
methinks, a career open to thee, which most should reckon rare
preferment, and good success. Ah, what is success?" he added, as if to
himself. "Howbeit, thou shalt hear. The Lady Queen lacketh nurses for
her children, and reckoning thou shouldst well fill such a place, I made
bold to speak for thee. And she thus far granted me, that thou shouldst
go up to Windsor, where the King's children are kept, and she herself is
at this present, there to talk with her, and let her see if thou art fit
for the post. If on further acquaintance she be pleased with thee, then
shalt thou be made nurse to one of the children; and if not, then the
Lady Queen will pay thy charges home. What sayest, my daughter?--and
thou also, Muriel, my sister?"

Both Muriel and Agnes felt as if their breath were taken away. As to
Avice, she was listening with those large ears for which little pitchers
are proverbial. The Bishop had spoken quietly, as if it were an
every-day occurrence, of this enormous change which would affect their
whole lives.

"Verily, Father, you are too good to us," said Muriel gratefully.

"And I will try to thank you, Father," added Agnes, "when I get back my
senses, and can find out whether I am on my head or my heels."

The Bishop and his chaplain laughed; and Agnes, recalled to her duties
by seeing the soup-bowl empty, jumped up and took down the spit on which
a chicken was roasting at the fire. Chickens were dear just then, and
this one had cost three farthings, having been provided in honour of
company. People helped themselves in those days in a very rough and
simple manner. Agnes held the chicken on the spit to the Bishop, who
cut from it with his own knife the part he preferred; then she served
the chaplain and Muriel in the same way, and lastly cut some off for
herself and Avice. Finally, when little was left beside the carcase,
she opened the back door, and bestowed the remains on Manikin the
turnspit dog, a little wiry, shaggy cur, which, released from his
labours, had sat on the hearth licking his lips while the process of
helping went on, knowing that his reward would come at last. Manikin
trotted off into the yard with his treasure,