d steel of his breastplate, "thou dost give thy ivy but a chilly
hold, Sir Oak."

"Ah," said Fawkes, looking at her; "thou wert always the same dainty
puss, but I trow this cold cuirass hath been warm enough even for thy
nestling, as down it hath gushed the warm blood of many a valiant foe
killed in close conflict. But enough of battles now, my pretty, for
home once more am I, and not sorry to let such bloody deeds rest."
Unfastening his cloak, sword and breastplate, he threw himself into a
chair before the fire which burned brightly on the hearth.

"But where's thy good grandam?" queried he, "must she tarry to put on
silks and satins in which to bid her son a welcome?"

"Nay," replied the girl with a laugh, kneeling at his side; "she, poor
soul, was but half awake; for these cold days illy suit her bones, and
she doth lie long in bed."

"And thou," said the man, taking her head between his hands, "art up
like a lark, to bid thy father welcome. Didst expect my return?"

"Sir Winter made mention of thy coming, but set no special day for thy
arrival," answered the girl, a shadow passing over her face as she
looked into the blaze.

"And did he say for what I was to come?" inquired Fawkes, evidently
anxious to set his mind at rest upon that subject.

"That he did not," she replied, still gazing abstractedly at the fire,
"but simply said that if thou camest to England he would give thee
service which would keep thee and me near to each other. And,"
continued she, suddenly turning toward him and taking both his hands
in hers, "thou wilt not leave me again for so long a time; I have been
sore lonely and oft have felt the need of thy sturdy arm on which to
lean."

"That I will not, my pretty dear," said Fawkes, drawing her closely
to him; "and thou didst really miss me, whom some do illy term a
pock-marked ruffian?"

"Indeed, thou art no ruffian!" Elinor cried, her eyes ablaze in a
moment; "and if any one so dared to call thee, I'd----"

"Well, well!" the father exclaimed, evidently surprised and looking
into the flushed face, "my sweet rose hath thorns as well as blushing
leaves, and would, I dare swear, strike a good blow for her sire's
name. By good Sir Cupid, but I do pity the one who doth try to balk
thy temper, little woman."

"And soon will come a time when thou wilt have a brave gentleman to
pity," broke in a mumbling voice which made the two start and turn.

The figure of an old woman, bent by age, with