in assembling the same airs of authority over him, as he had exercised when he was a child.  Such, however, was evidently the case; and Reginald had never entertained a thought of rescuing himself from the thraldom in which he had grown up.  A look from Mr Peeper; a solemn statement from him, that such and such things had never been heard of before in Belfront; and, above all, the use of the muttered and unintelligible jargon to which Mr Peeper betook himself in matters of weight and difficulty, were quite sufficient:  Reginald immediately gave up his own judgment, and felt in fact rather ashamed of himself for having hinted that he had a judgement at all.  Under these circumstances, Mr Lutter had a very difficult part to play; and all that Jane could do, was to second him whenever she had the opportunity.  One day, in the lovely month of April, Phil Lorimer sat on a sunny part of the enornous wall that guarded the castle, and leaning his back against one of the little square towers that rose at intervals in the circuit of the fortifications, sang song after song, as if for the edification of a number of crows that were perched on the trees on the other side of the moat.  The audience were grossly inattentive, and paid no respect whatever to the performer, who still continued his exertions, as highly satisfied as if he were applauded by boxes, pit, and gallery of a crowded theatre:—­Among others, he sang the ballad of the “Silver Scarf.”

  “It was a King’s fair daughter,
    With eyes of deepest blue,
  She wove a scarf of silver
    The whole long summer through—­

  “A stately chair she sat on
    Before the castle door,
  And ever in the calm moonlight
    She work’d it o’er and o’er.

  “And many a knight and noble
    Went daily out and in,
  And each one marvell’d in his heart
    Which the fair scarf might win.

  “She took no heed of questions,
    From her work ne’er raised her head,
  And on the snow-white border
    Sew’d her name in blackest thread.

  “Then came a tempest roaring,
    From the high hills it came,
  And bore the scarf far out to sea
    From forth its fragile frame: 

  “The maiden sate unstartled,
    As if it must be so—­
  She stood up from her stately chair,
    And to her bower did go.

  “She took from forth her wardrobe
    Her dress of mourning hue—­
  Whoever for a scarf before
    Such weight of sorrow knew?

  “In robes of deepest mourning,
    Three nights and days she sate;
  On the third night, the warder’s horn
    Was sounded at the gate—­

  “A messenger stands at the door,
    And sad news bringeth he;
  The king and all his gallant ships
    Are wreck’d upon the sea.

  “And now the tide is rising,
    And casts upon the shore
  Full many a gallant hero’s corse,
    And many a golden store.