“If you try it on, I’ll tell ’Ucks,” the girl threatened, by this time desperate.  “You’re like all the actors—­leastways you’re like all that ever I met; an’, take it ’ow you will, I got to say it.  Once get started on yer own lay, an’ everything elst goes out o’ yer ’eads.  You don’t mean to ’urt, but selfish you are and ‘eedless, an’ somebody ‘as al’ays the world’s trouble clearin’ up the mess.  ’Ere, ’and me the part you was tellin’ about; an’ I’ll learn it an’ say it, though not within a ’undred miles of Glasson—­which,” she added, “I’ll be an old woman before that, at the rate we’re goin’.  But you don’t drag Arthur Miles into it, an’ I give you fair warnin’.  For, to start with, ’e’s ‘idin’, an’ ’tis only to keep ’im ’id that I got ’Ucks to let yer loose.  An’ nex’ ’e’s a gentleman, and why you should want to mix ’im up with yer Shakespeares I can’t think.”

It is doubtful if Mr. Mortimer heard the conclusion of her outburst.  At the mention of Mr. Hucks he pressed a palm dramatically to his forehead; and now, withdrawing it, he handed her the two slips of paper with great politeness.

“True, I had forgotten,” he murmured.  “Take your time, child—­you will take your time, I beg.”

He waved his hand, and withdrew to rejoin his wife on the cabin-top.  Tilda studied the slips of paper, while Arthur Miles edged away again towards the gunwale for another look into the magic water.

“Stop that!” she commanded, glancing up and catching him in the act.  “Stop that, and read these for me:  I can’t manage handwriting.”

The boy took the first slip obediently and read aloud—­

“Madam, a horseman comes riding across the hill.  The sun flashes full on his arms.  By my halidame ’tis the Knight Hospitaller!”

“That seems pretty fair rot,” criticised Tilda.  “Let’s ’ave the other.”

“_ Madam, he has reined up his steed.  He stands without._”

Here Arthur Miles paused and drew breath.

“Without what?”

“It doesn’t say. He stands without:  he waves a hand.  Shall I go ask his errand? ”

“Is that all? . . .  And Mortimer reckons I’ll take from ’ere to Stratford learnin’ that little lot!  Why, I can do it in arf-a-minute, an’ on my ’ead.  You just listen. Madam, a ’orseman—­No, wait a moment. Madam, a Norseman—­” Tilda hesitated and came to a halt.  “Would you mind sayin’ it over again, Arthur Miles?” she asked politely.

“Madam, a horseman comes riding—­”

“That’ll do. Madam, a—­H—­h—­horseman—­Is that better?”

“You needn’t strain at it so,” said the boy.  “Why, you’re quite red in the face!”

“Oh, yes, I need,” said Tilda; “first-along, any’ow.”  She fell silent for a space.  “That Mortimer,” she conceded, “isn’ quite the ass that ’e looks.  This ’as got to take time, after all.”  She paused a moment in thought, and then broke out, “Oh, Arthur Miles, the trouble you’re layin’ on me—­First, to be a mother—­an’ that’s not ’ard.  But, on top o’ that, lady!”