s he. 'Tis uncle Hal."

"Ay, 'tis all you're like to have for him," answered Harry Randall,
enfolding each in his embrace. "Lad, how like thou art to my poor
sister! And is she indeed gone--and your honest father too--and none
left at home but that hunks, little John? How and when died she?"

"Two years agone come Lammastide," answered Stephen. "There was a
deadly creeping fever and ague through the Forest. We two sickened, and
Ambrose was so like to die that Diggory went to the abbey for the priest
to housel and anneal him, but by the time Father Simon came he was sound
asleep, and soon was whole again. But before we were on our legs, our
blessed mother took the disease, and she passed away ere many days were
over. Then, though poor father took not that sickness, he never was the
same man again, and only twelve days after last Pasch-tide he was taken
with a fit and never spake again."

Stephen was weeping by this time, and his uncle had a hand on his
shoulder, and with tears in his eyes, threw in ejaculations of pity and
affection. Ambrose finished the narrative with a broken voice indeed,
but as one who had more self-command than his brother, perhaps than his
uncle, whose exclamations became bitter and angry as he heard of the
treatment the boys had experienced from their half-brother, who, as he
said, he had always known as a currish mean-spirited churl, but scarce
such as this.

"Nor do I think he would have been, save for his wife, Maud Pratt of
Hampton," said Ambrose. "Nay, truly also, he deemed that we were only
within a day's journey of council from our uncle Richard at Hyde."

"Richard Birkenholt was a sturdy old comrade! Methinks he would give
Master Jack a piece of his mind."

"Alack, good uncle, we found him in his dotage, and the bursar of Hyde
made quick work with us, for fear, good Father Shoveller said, that we
were come to look after his corrody."

"Shoveller--what, a Shoveller of Cranbury? How fell ye in with him?"

Ambrose told the adventures of their journey, and Randall exclaimed, "By
my bau--I mean by my faith--if ye have ill-luck in uncles, ye have had
good luck in friends."

"No ill-luck in thee, good, kind uncle," said Stephen, catching at his
hand with the sense of comfort that kindred blood gives.

"How wottest thou that, child? Did not I--I mean did not Merryman tell
you, that mayhap ye would not be willing to own your uncle?"

"We deemed he was but jesting," said Ste