“The daughter of a wool stapler, one Martin Holt, foster brother to my venerated father, the third Earl of Andover,” said Lady Frances, quietly.  “Truly, my daughter, these good folks are not in birth our equal, and would be the first to say so; nevertheless they are worthy and honest people, and I can remember that Bridget, my mother’s maid, who astonished us and deeply offended her relations by a sudden and ill-judged marriage with Nicholas Trevlyn, was a wonderfully well-looking woman.  How and why such a marriage was made none may rightly know now.  I can remember that the dark-browed Nicholas, who was but little loved at our house, took some heed to this girl, greatly younger than himself, though herself of ripening age when she let herself be persuaded into that loveless wedlock.  It was whispered that he had made a convert of her; the Jesuits and seminary priests were hard at work, striving to win back their lost power by increasing the number of their flock and recruiting from all classes of the people.  Nicholas was then a blind tool in the hands of these men, and I always suspected that this was one of his chief motives for so ill judged a step.  At any rate, Bridget pronounced herself a Romanist, and was married by a priest of that Church according to its laws.  Her family cast her off, and Nicholas would let us have no dealings with her.  Poor Bridget!  I trow she lived to rue the day; and the change of her faith was but a passing thing, for I know she returned to her old beliefs when time had allowed her to see things more clearly.

“But to return to the beginning.  If Bridget’s brother, Martin Holt, yet lives and carries on his father’s business, as is most like, on London Bridge, his house would be no bad shelter for this poor lad, who will scarce have means or breeding as yet to take his place with those of higher quality.”

“That is very true,” said Sir Richard.  “The lad is a right honest lad, and his gentle blood shows in a thousand little ways; but his upbringing has not fitted him for mingling with the high ones of the world, and it would be well for him to rub off something of his rustic shyness and awkwardness ere he tries to cut a fine figure.  I doubt not that Martin Holt would receive his sister’s son.”

“A wool stapler!” muttered Kate, with a slight pout of her pretty lips.  “I was going to have sent him to Culverhouse with a letter, to see what he would do for my cousin.”

“Lord Culverhouse could not do much,” answered her father, with a smile.  “He is but a stripling himself, and has his own way yet to make.  And remember too, dear Lady Disdain, that in these times of change and upheaval it boots not to speak thus scornfully of honest city folks, be they wool staplers or what you will, who gain their wealth by trading on the high seas and with foreign lands.  Bethink you that even the King himself, despite his fine phrases on divine right, has to sue something humbly to his good citizens of London and