“I should indeed rejoice at this,” said Richard, “were it not that—­”

And he stopped, gazing anxiously at her.

“Were not what?” cried Alizon, alarmed by his looks.  “What do you mean?”

“Do not press me further,” he rejoined; “I cannot answer you.  Indeed I have said too much already.”

“You have said too much or too little,” cried Alizon.  “Speak, I implore you.  What mean these dark hints which you throw out, and which like shadows elude all attempts to grasp them!  Do not keep me in this state of suspense and agitation.  Your looks speak more than your words.  Oh, give your thoughts utterance!”

“I cannot,” replied Richard.  “I do not believe what I have heard, and therefore will not repeat it.  It would only increase the mischief.  But oh! tell me this!  Was it, indeed, to remove you from the baneful influence of Elizabeth Device that Mistress Nutter adopted you?”

“Other motives may have swayed her, and I have said they did so,” replied Alizon; “but that wish, no doubt, had great weight with her.  Nay, notwithstanding her abhorrence of the family, she has kindly consented to use her best endeavours to preserve little Jennet from further ill, as well as to reclaim poor misguided Elizabeth herself.”

“Oh! what a weight you have taken from my heart,” cried Richard, joyfully.  “I will tell Dorothy what you say, and it will at once remove all her doubts and suspicions.  She will now be the same to you as ever, and to Mistress Nutter.”

“I will not ask you what those doubts and suspicions were, since you so confidently promise me this, which is all I desire,” replied Alizon, smiling; “but any unfavourable opinions entertained of Mistress Nutter are wholly undeserved.  Poor lady! she has endured many severe trials and sufferings, and whenever you learn the whole of her history, she will, I am sure, have your sincere sympathy.”

“You have certainly produced a complete revolution in my feelings towards her,” said Richard, “and I shall not be easy till I have made a like convert of Dorothy.”

At this moment a loud clapping of hands was heard, and Nicholas was seen marching towards the centre of the hall, preceded by the minstrels, who had descended for the purpose from the gallery, and bearing in his arms a large red velvet cushion.  As soon as the dancers had formed a wide circle round him, a very lively tune called “Joan Sanderson,” from which the dance about to be executed sometimes received its name, was struck up, and the squire, after a few preliminary flourishes, set down the cushion, and gave chase to Dame Tetlow, who, threading her way rapidly through the ring, contrived to elude him.  This chase, accompanied by music, excited shouts of laughter on all hands, and no one knew which most to admire, the eagerness of the squire, or the dexterity of the lissom dame in avoiding him.

Exhausted at length, and baffled in his quest, Nicholas came to a halt before Tom the Piper, and, taking up the cushion, thus preferred his complaint:—­“This dance it can no further go—­no further go.”