your only daughter. Anan?"

For though this was quite true, Susan feeling that it was not the whole
truth, made but faint response. However, the Countess went on,
expecting to overpower her with gratitude. "The gentleman I mean is
willing to take her in her smock, and moreover his wardship and
marriage were granted to my Lord by her Majesty. Thou knowest whom I
mean."

She wanted to hear a guess, and Susan actually foreboded the truth, but
was too full of dismay and perplexity to do anything but shake her head
as one puzzled.

"What think'st thou of Mr. Babington?" triumphantly exclaimed the
Countess.

"Mr. Babington!" returned Susan. "But he is no longer a ward!"

"No. We had granted his marriage to a little niece of my Lord
Treasurer's, but she died ere coming to age. Then Tom Ratcliffe's wife
would have him for her daughter, a mere babe. But for that thou and
thine husband have done good service while evil tongues kept me absent,
and because the wench comes of our own blood, we are willing to bestow
her upon him, he showing himself willing and content, as bents a lad
bred in our own household."

"Madam, we are much beholden to you and my Lord, but sure Mr. Babington
is more inclined to the old faith."

"Tush, woman, what of that? Thou mayst say the same of half our
Northern youth! They think it grand to dabble with seminary priests in
hiding, and talk big about their conscience and the like, but when
they've seen a neighbour or two pay down a heavy fine for recusancy,
they think better of it, and a good wife settles their brains to jog to
church to hear the parson with the rest of them."

"I fear me Cis is over young to settle any one's mind," said Susan.

"She is seventeen if she is a day," said my Lady, "and I was a wedded
wife ere I saw my teens. Moreover, I will say for thee, Susan, that
thou hast bred the girl as becomes one trained in my household, and
unless she have been spoiled by resort to the Scottish woman, she is
like to make the lad a moderately good wife, having seen nought of the
unthrifty modes of the fine court dames, who queen it with standing
ruffs a foot high, and coloured with turmeric, so please you, but who
know no more how to bake a marchpane, or roll puff paste, than yonder
messan dog!"

"She is a good girl," said Susan, "but--"

"What has the foolish wife to object now?" said the Countess. "I tell
you I marked them both last eve, and though I seldom turn my mind to