In one corner of the hall at Waddington sat Mistress Joan, her only daughter Elizabeth, and two or three female domestics.

They had been spinning, trolling out the while their country ditties with great pathos and simplicity.

Being nigh supper-time, the group were just loitering in the twilight ere they separated for the meal.

“Come, Elizabeth,” said her mother, “lay thy gear aside; the strawberries are in the bowl, and the milk is served.  Supper and to bed, and a brisk nap while morning.”

The dame who addressed her was a perfect specimen of the good housewife in the fifteenth century.  She wore a quilted woollen gown, open before, with pendant sleeves, and a long narrow train; a corset, fitted close to the body, unto which the petticoats were attached, and a boddice laced outside.  She wore the horned head-dress so fashionable towards the close of the fourteenth century, and at that time still in use, giving the head and face no slight resemblance to the ace of hearts.  An apron was tied on with great care, ornamented with embroidery of the preceding century.  Her complexion, was dark but clear, and her eyebrows high and well-arched.  Her mouth was drawn in, raised slightly on one side,—­a conformation more particularly apparent when engaged in scolding the maids, or in other similar but indispensable occupations.

Her gait was firm, and her person upright.  Her age—­ungallant historians we must be—­was verging closely upon sixty; yet her hair, turned crisp and full behind her head-dress, showed slight symptoms of the chill which hoar and frosty age, sooner or later, never fails to impart.

Elizabeth Tempest was young, but of a staid and temperate aspect, almost approaching to that of melancholic.  Her complexion, pale and sallow; her eye full, dark, and commanding, though occasionally more languor was on it than eyes of that colour are wont to express.  She wore a long jacket of russet colour, and a crimson boddice.  Her hair, turned back from her brow, hung in dark heavy ringlets below the neck, which, though not of alabaster, was exquisitely modelled.  In person she was tall and well-shapen, and her whole manner displayed a mind of no ordinary proportions.  She was well-skilled in household duties, her mother having an especial desire that her daughter should be as notable and thrifty as herself in domestic arrangements.

“Elizabeth,” or “Elspet,” as she was indiscriminately called, cared little about her reputation touching these important functions.  She could sing most of the wild legendary ballads of the time; her rich full voice had in it a sadness ravishingly tender and expressive, more akin to woe, and the deep untold agony of the spirit, than to lightness and mirth, in which she rarely indulged.

“Give us one of thy ditties ere supper,” said the dame, who was just then laying aside her implements in the work-press.  “I wonder thy father does not return.  The roofs of Bashall ring with louder cheer than our own, I trow.  He is playing truant for the nonce, which is dangerous play at best.”