truly will I, an you will," answered Cherry, as much from real
nervous fear as from the coquetry which made such companionship
pleasant. "But I would fain go back a few paces for my poor reeds,
that I go not home empty handed. And you must catch your steed, Sir
Knight; he seems disposed to wander away at his own will."

"My steed will come at a call. He is a faithful beast, and not
addicted to errant moods. Let us fetch your basket, lady, and then
to your home.

"Is this it? Prithee, let me carry it; its weight is too much for
you. See, I will place it so on Dobbin's broad back, and then we
can jog along easily together."

Cherry, her fears allayed, and her imaginative fancy pleased by the
termination to this adventure, chatted gaily to her tall companion;
and as they neared the bridge with its many twinkling lights, she
pointed out one of the houses in the middle, and told her companion
that she dwelt there. His face turned eagerly upon her at hearing
that.

"I am right glad to hear it, for perchance you can then direct me
to the dwelling of Master Martin Holt, the wool stapler, if he yet
plies his trade there as his father did before him."

"Martin Holt!" cried Cherry, eagerly interrupting. "Why, good sir,
Martin Holt is my father."

The young man stopped short in amaze, and then said slowly,
"Verily, this is a wondrous hap, for Martin Holt is mine own uncle.
I am Cuthbert Trevlyn, the son of his sister Bridget."

Chapter 6: Martin Holt's Supper Party.

Six o'clock was the almost universal hour for supper amongst the
well-to-do classes, both gentle and simple, and Martin Holt's
family sat down to the well-spread board punctually to the minute
every day of their lives. But though there was no eating before
that hour, the invited guests who were intimate at the house
generally arrived about dusk, and were served with hot ginger wine
with lumps of butter floating in it, or some similar concoction
accounted a delicacy in those days of coarse feeding, and indulged
in discussion and conversation which was the preliminary to the
serious business of supper.

At four o'clock, then, Mistress Susan's table was set, the homespun
cloth of excellent texture and whiteness spread upon the board,
which was further adorned by plates and tankards, knives and even
forks, though these last-named articles were quite a novelty, and
rather lightly esteemed by Mistress Susan, who was a rigid
conservative in all domestic ma