“His Lordship begs Mistress Penwick to step to the library after her breakfast.”

“Step, to be sure, thou hadst better bring a chariot to cart her there, and ’twould be out of the question for her to go before getting anything into her stomach to strengthen her for the journey.”

“Shall I tell him so, mum?” said the servant, with a look of roguery in his eyes.

“’Twould become thee better to tell him without asking if thou shouldst.  Avaunt, get thee gone on thy mission.”  Then turning to Katherine,—­“’Twould have to come sooner or later and ’tis best sooner I’m thinking,” and Janet stepped to draw the curtains to let in but a sickly grey light.  “Ah, there is a great snowstorm! and there seems to be a large party about to set forth a hunting.”  And indeed there arose to their ears a great noise of baying hounds and the tramping of horses in the courtyard, and voices were raised high and merry.  There was a rattle of spurs and champing of bits; and as the two women looked from the window the party set forth.

“Thou wilt go with me, Janet?”

“As far as the library door.  I will listen and peep through the keyhole when no one is passing.”

A lackey came to conduct Mistress Katherine below.  He looked surprised at Janet as she followed them, neither was his curiosity appeased when Mistress Penwick passed through the library door, and the severe-faced Janet sat down upon a ponderous chair in the corridor just outside.

’Twas a great room with enormous fireplaces, and in front of one of them stood Lord Cedric.  There was a smile on his face as he noted his ward’s surprise.  She looked upon him with interest and finally spoke,—­

“Lord Cedric sent for me; he is not here,” and she retreated as if to leave the room.

“Nay, do not leave until thou hast become acquainted with Cedric of Crandlemar.”  He held out his hand to her longingly, pleadingly, and stood thus before her; his figure of an Adonis silhouetted by the flames that reached above his head in the great chimney behind him.  His face and form was a match for her own.  A hunting-coat wrapped his broad shoulders; his beauteous limbs were encased in high-field boots, showing well his fine masculine mould.

“How many lords of Crandlemar are there?” she asked, almost contemptuously.

“One, only,” and he still held out his hand with a gesture of entreaty.  “I was the ill-humoured, boisterous man in Scotch attire last night.  I beg thee to forgive and forget it.  Come—­come—­thou art my ward.”

“But my Lord Cedric is an old man, as old as my father, and is Scotch.”