’Twas Master Shakspere on his feet, welcoming his friends to his “New Place” with quiet words that made them glad to live and to be there, when suddenly he stopped, his hands upon the table by his chair, and stared.

The tanner stood there, silent, in the door.

Nick’s face turned pale.  Cicely clung to Master Jonson’s arm.

Simon Attwood stepped into the room, and Master Shakspere went quickly to meet him in the middle of the floor.

“Master Will Shakspere,” said the tanner, hoarsely, “I ha’ come about a matter.”  There he stopped, not knowing what to say, for he was overwrought.

“Out with it, sir,” said Master Shakspere, sternly.  “There is much here to be said.”

The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and looked about the ring of cold, averted faces.  Soft words with him were few; he had forgotten tender things; and, indeed, what he meant to do was no easy thing for any man.

“Come, say what thou hast to say,” said Master Shakspere, resolutely; “and say it quickly, that we may have done.”

“There’s nought that I can say,” said Simon Attwood, “but that I be sorry, and I want my son!  Nick!  Nick!” he faltered brokenly, “I be wrung for thee; will ye na come home—­just for thy mother’s sake, Nick, if ye will na come for mine?”

Nick started from his seat with a glad cry—­then stopped.  “But Cicely?” he said.

The tanner wrung his hat within his hands, and his face was dark with trouble.  Master Shakspere looked at Master Jonson.

Nick stood hesitating between Cicely and his father, faithful to his promise, though his heart was sick for home.

An odd light had been struggling dimly in Simon Attwood’s troubled eyes.  Then all at once it shone out bright and clear, and he clapped his bony hand upon the stout oak chair.  “Bring her along,” he said.  “I ha’ little enough, but I will do the best I can.  Maybe ’twill somehow right the wrong I ha’ done,” he added huskily.  “And, neighbors, I’ll go surety to the Council that she shall na fall a pauper or a burden to the town.  My trade is ill enough, but, sirs, it will stand for forty pound the year at a fair cast-up.  Bring the lass wi’ thee, Nick—­we’ll make out, lad, we’ll make out.  God will na let it all go wrong.”

Master Jonson and Master Shakspere had been nodding and talking together in a low tone, smiling like men very well pleased about something, and directly Master Shakspere left the room.

“Wilt thou come, lad?” asked the tanner, holding out his hands.

“Oh, father!” cried Nick; then he choked so that he could say no more, and his eyes were so full of mist that he could scarcely find his father where he stood.

But there was no need of more; Simon Attwood was answered.

Voices buzzed about the room.  The servants whispered in the hall.  Nick held his father’s gnarled hand in his own, and looked curiously up into his face, as if for the first time knowing what it was to have a father.