“Father,” said Cicely, gravely, “hast thou forgotten me?”

“Nay, sweetheart, nay,” cried Carew, with a wonderful laugh that somehow warmed the cockles of Nick’s forlorn heart; and turning quickly, the master-player caught up the little maid and kissed her again and again, so tenderly that Nick was amazed to see how one so cruel could be so kind, and how so good a little maid could love so bad a man; for she twined her arms about his neck, and then lay back with her head upon his shoulder, purring like a kitten in his arms.

“Father,” said she, patting his cheek, “some one hath told him naughty things of thee.  Come, daddy, say they are not so!”

The master-player’s face turned red as flame.  He coughed and looked up among the roof-beams.  “Why, of course they’re not,” said he, uneasily.

“There, boy!” cried she; “I told thee so.  Why, daddy, think!—­they said that thou hadst stolen him away from his own mother, and wouldst not leave him go!”

“Hollo!” ejaculated the master-player, abruptly, with a quiver in his voice; “what a hole thou hast made in the pasty, Nick!”

“Ah, daddy,” persisted Cicely, “and what a hole it would make in his mother’s heart if he had been stolen away!”

“Wouldst like another draught of cordial, Nick?” cried Carew, hurriedly, reaching out for the tall flagon with a trembling hand. “’Tis good to cheer the troubled heart, lad.  Not that thou hast any reason in the world to let thy heart be troubled,” he added hastily.  “No, indeed, upon my word; for thou art on the doorstep of a golden-lined success.  See, Nick, how the light shines through!” and he tilted up the flagon.  “It is one of old Jake Vessaline’s Murano-Venetian glasses; a beautiful thing, now, is it not?  ’Tis good as any made abroad!” but his hand was shaking so that half the cordial missed the cup and ran into a little shimmering pool upon the table-top.

“And thou’lt send him home again, daddy, wilt thou not?”

“Yes, yes, of course—­why, to be sure—­we’ll send him anywhere that thou dost say, Golden-heart:  to Persia or Cathay—­ay, to the far side of the green-cheese moon, or to the court of Tamburlaine the Great,” and he laughed a quick, dry, nervous laugh that had no laughter in it.  “I had one of De Lannoy’s red Bohemian bottles, Nick,” he rattled on feverishly; “but that butter-fingered rogue”—­he nodded his head at the outer stair—­“dropped it, smash! and made a thousand most counterfeit fourpences out of what cost me two pound sterling.”

“But will ye truly leave me go, sir?” faltered Nick.

“Why, of course—­to be sure—­yes, certainly—­yes, yes.  But, Nick, it is too late this night.  Why, come, thou couldst not go to-night.  See, ’tis dark, and thou a stranger in the town.  ’Tis far to Stratford town—­thou couldst not walk it, lad; there will be carriers anon.  Come, stay awhile with Cicely and me—­we will make thee a right welcome guest!”