the two gentlemen—­for Captain Fortescue would not sit down, and Robin had risen at his entrance—­the two gentlemen stood by it.  They were not in their boots, for they were not to ride till morning; they appeared two ordinary gentlemen, each hat-in-hand, and Robin had his cloak across his arm.  Anthony Babington stood in the shadow by the door, and, beyond him, the girl could see the face of Dick, who had come up to say good-bye again to his old master.

That was all—­four men and two ladies.  None raised his voice, none made a gesture.  The home party spoke of the journey, and of their hopes that all would go well; the travellers, or rather the leader (for Robin spoke not one word, good or bad), said that he was sure it would be so; there was not one-tenth of the difficulty in getting out of England as of getting into it.  Then, again, he said that it was late; that he had still one or two matters to arrange; that they must be out of London as soon as the gates opened.  And the scene ended.

Robin bowed to the two ladies, precisely and courteously; making no difference between them, and wheeled and went out, and she saw Dick’s face, too, vanish from the door, and heard the voices of the two on the stairs.  Marjorie returned the salute of Mr. Ballard, longing to entreat him to take good care of the boy, yet knowing that she must not and could not.

Then he, too, was gone, with Anthony to see him downstairs; and Marjorie, without a word, went straight through to her room, fearing to trust her own voice, for she felt that her heart was gone with them.  Yet, not for one moment did even her sensitive soul distrust any more the nature of the love that she bore to the lad.

But Mistress Alice sat down again to her sewing.

CHAPTER V

I

Marjorie was sitting in her mother’s room, while her mother slept.  She had been reading aloud from a bundle of letters—­news from Rheims; but little by little she had seen sleep come down on her mother’s face, and had let her voice trail away into silence.  And so she sat quiet.

* * * * *

It seemed incredible that nearly a year had passed since her visit to London, and that Christmas was upon them again.  Yet in this remote country place there was little to make time run slowly:  the country-side wheeled gently through the courses of the year; the trees put on their green robes, changed them for russet and dropped them again; the dogs and the horses grew a little older, a beast died now and again, and others were born.  The faces that she knew, servants and farmers, aged imperceptibly.  Here and there a family moved away, and another into its place; an old man died and his son succeeded him, but the mother and sisters lived on in the house in patriarchal fashion.  Priests came and went again unobserved; Marjorie went to the sacraments when she