“No:  and yet the rogue who invents them may think they will.”

“I should not be at all anxious, Faith,” said Anne.  “Here are my father, and yours, and my chivalrous brother, and—­”

“And Mr. Thomas Pownal,” said Faith, smiling, observing she hesitated.

“Yes, and Mr. Pownal; I am sure they would all be happy to spend a great deal of breath and a little money in your service.  They will protect Father Holden.  What are the gentlemen good for, if they cannot grace a fair lady thus far?”

“And Mistress Anne, should they fail, would, like another Don Quixote, with lance in rest, charge the enemy, and release the captive knight, herself,” said her father, pinching her cheek.

“Like Amadis de Gaul, father, and then would I present the captive of my sword and lance to you, Faith, though what you would do with him I do not know.”

“Do not let us hear of swords and lances from you, Anne,” said her mother.  “Thimbles and needles become you better.”

“If I had been a man,” exclaimed Anne, “and lived in the olden time, how I would have gloried in such an adventure!  You, Faith, should have been the distressed damsel, I the valorous knight, and Father Holden a captured seneschal.  How would I have slashed around me, and how would you have blushed, and hung about my neck, and kissed me, when I appeared leading by the hand your venerable servitor!”

“What! what!” cried her father, “before the seneschal?”

“He would be so old he could not see, or, if he was not, tears of joy would fill his eyes so that they would blind him,” said Anne.

“An excellent idea, my dear,” said Mrs. Bernard:  “hand me my knitting-work.”

“What! a knight hand knitting-work?”

“Certainly,” said her father.  “It is a knight’s business and delight, to be employed in the service of the fair.”

“Here is your knitting, mamma.  I am an enchanted knight, changed by some horrible incantation into a girl,” said Anne, resuming her needle.

“Worth twice all the preux chevaliers from Bayard down,” said the Judge, kissing her blooming cheek.

“Who is in great danger of being spoiled by the flattery of her fond father,” said Mrs. Bernard, smiling.

“Dear mother, how can you speak so of an enchanted knight?”

“I will crave your aid in the hour of peril, Sir Knight,” said Faith, rising.  “Meantime, accept this kiss as guerdon for your good will.”

“Or retainer,” said the Judge.

Faith left her friends in better spirits than she had met them.  The assurances of Judge Bernard had relieved her mind of a weight of anxiety.  It was evident, she thought, from the manner in which the subject was treated by the family, that they felt no apprehensions.  The gaiety of Anne, too, had not failed of its design.  It was, indeed, scarcely possible to be in the presence of this sweet girl without feeling the charm which, like the sun, radiated light and happiness about her.  It was the overflow of an innocent and happy heart, and as natural to her as light to the sun, or fragrance to the rose.