“It is my father, Cicely.”

She stared at him.  “And thou dost hate my father so?  Oh, Nick! oh, Nick!”

“Will ye be gone?” called Simon Attwood, half-way opening the gate; “must I set constables on thee?”

Nick did not move.  A numbness had crept over him like palsy.  Cicely caught him by the hand.  “Come, let us go back to my father,” she said.  “He will not turn us out.”

Scarcely knowing what he did, he followed her, stumbling in the level path as though he were half blind or had been beaten upon the head.  He did not cry.  This was past all crying.  He let himself be led along—­it made no matter where.

In Chapel lane there was a crowd along the Great House wall; and on the wall Ned Cooke and Martin Addenbroke were sitting.  There were heads of people moving on the porch and in the court, and the yard was all a-bustle and to-do.  But there was nobody in the street, and no one looked at Nick and Cicely.

The Great House did look very fair in the sun of that May day, with its homely gables of warm red brick and sunburnt timber, its cheery roof of Holland tile, and with the sunlight flashing from the diamond panes that were leaded into the sashes of the great bay-window on the eastern garden side.

In the garden all was stir-about and merry voices.  There was a little green court before the house, and a pleasant lawn coming down to the lane from the doorway porch.  The house stood to the left of the entry-drive, and the barn-yard to the right was loud with the blithe crowing of the cocks.  But the high brick wall shut out the street where Nick and Cicely trudged dolefully along, and to Nick the lane seemed very full of broken crockery and dirt, and the sunlight all a mockery.  The whole of the year had not yet been so dark as this, for there had ever been the dream of coming home.  But now—­he suffered himself to be led along; that was enough.

They had come past the Great House up from Chapel street, when a girl came out of the western gate, and with her hand above her eyes looked after them.  She seemed in doubt, but looked again, quite searchingly.  Then, as one who is not sure, but does not wish to miss a chance, called out, “Nick Attwood!  Nick Attwood!”

Cicely looked back to see who called.  She did not know the girl, but saw her beckon.  “There is some one calling, Nick,” said she.

Nick stopped in a hopeless sort of way, and looked back down the street.

When he had turned so that the girl at the gate could see his face, she left the gate wide open behind her, and came running quickly up the street after them.  As she drew nearer he saw that it was Susanna Shakspere, though she was very much grown since he had seen her last.  He watched her running after them as if it were none of his affair.  But when she had caught up with them, she took him by the shoulder smartly and drew him back toward the gate.  “Why, Nicholas Attwood,” she cried, all out of breath, “come straightway into the house with me.  My father hath been hunting after thee the whole way up from London town!”