a
greater man than the king, if I were to swing for it; but, Harry,
you cannot by yourself move these. What will you do?"

But I begged him to say no more, and started toward the window, the
door being fast locked as Mistress Mary had left it, when suddenly
the boy stopped me and caught me by the hand, and begged me to tell
him if I thought there might be any hope for him with Mary
Cavendish, being moved to do so by her sending him away so
peremptorily the night before, which had put him in sore doubt.
"Tell me, Harry," he pleaded, and the great lad seemed like a child,
with his honest outlook of blue eyes, "tell me what you think, I
pray thee, Harry; look at me, and tell me, if you were a maid, what
would you think of me?"

Loving Mary Cavendish as I did, and striving to look at him with her
eyes, a sort of tenderness crept into my heart for this simple
lover, who was as brave as he was simple, and I clapped a hand on
his fair curls, for though he was so tall I was taller, and laughed
and said, "If I were a maid, though 'tis a fancy to rack the brain,
but, if I were a maid, I would love thee well, lad."

"My mother thinketh none like me, and so tells me every day, and
says that I am like my father, who was the handsomest man in
England; but then mothers be all so, and I know not how much of it
to trust, and my sister Cicely loves Mary so well herself that she
is jealous, and often tells me--" then the lad stopped and
stared at me, and I at him, perplexed, not dreaming what was in his
mind.

"Tells you what, Sir Humphrey?" said I.

"That, that--oh, confound it, Harry, there is no harm in saying
it, for you as well as I know the folly of it, and that 'tis but the
jealous fancy of a girl. Faith, but I think my sister Cicely is as
much in love with Mary Cavendish as I. 'Tis but--my sister
Cicely, when she will tease me, tells me 'tis not I but you that
Mary Cavendish hath set her heart upon, Harry."

I felt myself growing pale at that, and I could not speak because of
a curious stiffness of my lips, and I heard my heart beat like a
clock in the deserted house. Sir Humphrey was looking at me with an
anxiety which was sharpening into suspicion. "Harry," he said, "you
do not think--"

"'Tis sheer folly, lad," I burst out then, "and let us have no more
of it. 'Tis but the idle prating of a lovesick girl, who should have
a lover, ere she try to steal a nest in the heart of one of her own
sex. 'Tis folly, Sir Humphrey