as having to do with a profession for which he made preparatory studies, even if he did not enter upon its practice.  Yes, in spite of our alleged ignorance of Shakespeare’s life, and especially of the utter darkness which has been thought to rest upon the years which intervened between his marriage in Stratford and his joining the Lord Chamberlain’s company of players in London, the question is, now, whether the next historical novel may not begin in this wise:—­

CHAPTER I.

THE FUGITIVE.

At the close of a lovely summer’s day, two horsemen might have been seen slowly pacing through the main street of Stratford-on-Avon.  Attracting no little attention from the group of loiterers around the market-cross, they passed the White-Lion Inn, and, turning into Henley Street, soon drew their bridles before a goodly cottage built of heavy timbers and standing with one of its peaked gables to the street.  On the door was a shingle upon which was painted,

  Willm.  Shakspere,

  Attornei at Lawe and Solicitor
  in Chancere.

One of the travellers—­a grave man, whose head was sprinkled with the snows of fifty winters—­dismounted, and, approaching the door, knocked at it with the steel hilt of his sword.  He received no answer; but presently the lattice opened above his head, and a sharp voice sharply asked,—­

“Who knocks?”

“’Tis I, good wife!” replied the horseman.  “Where is thy husband?  I would see him!”

“Oh, Master John a Combe, is it you?  I knew you not.  Neither know I where that unthrift William is these two days.  It was but three nights gone that he went with Will Squele and Dick Burbage, one of the player folk, to take a deer out of Sir Thomas Lucy’s park, and, as Will’s ill-luck would have it, they were taken, as well as the deer, and there was great ado.  But Will—­that’s my Will—­and Dick Burbage, brake from the keepers in Sir Thomas’ very hall, and got off; and that’s the last that has been heard of them; and here be I left a lone woman with these three children, and——­Be quiet, Hamnet!  Would ye pour my supper ale upon the hat of the worshipful Master John a Combe?”

“What! deer-stealing?” exclaimed John a Combe.  “Is it thus that he apes the follies of his betters?  I had more hope of the lad, for he hath a good heart and a quick engine; and I trusted that ere now he had drawn the lease of my Wilmecote farm to Master Tilney here.  But deer-stealing!—­like a lord’s son, or a knight’s at the least.  Could not the rifling of a rabbit-warren serve his turn?  Deer-stealing!  I fear me he will come to nought!”

The speaker remounted, and soon the two horsemen might again have been seen wending their way back through the deepening twilight.

* * * * *