Will Cavendish then explained that a post had come that morning to his stepfather from Wingfield, having been joined on the way by Babington (people always preferred travelling in companies for security’s sake), and that, as there was a packet from Sir Ralf Sadler for Master Richard, he had brought it down, accompanied by his friend, who was anxious to pay his devoirs to the ladies, and though Will spoke to the mother, he smiled and nodded comprehension at the daughter, who blushed furiously, and set her spindle to twirl and leap so violently, as to make the kitten believe the creature had taken fright, and was going to escape.  On she dashed with a sudden spring, involving herself and it in the flax.  The old watch-dog roused himself with a growl to keep order.  Cicely flung herself on the cat, Antony hurried to the rescue to help her disentangle it, and received a fierce scratch for his pains, which made him start back, while Mrs. Talbot put in her word.  “Ah, Master Babington, it is ill meddling with a cat in the toils, specially for men folk!  Here, Cis, hold her fast and I will soon have her free.  Still, Tib!”

Cicely’s cheeks were of a still deeper colour as she held fast the mischievous favourite, while the good mother untwisted the flax from its little claws and supple limbs, while it winked, twisted its head about sentimentally, purred, and altogether wore an air of injured innocence and forgiveness.

“I am afraid, air, you receive nothing but damage at our house,” said Mrs. Talbot politely.  “Hast drawn blood?  Oh fie! thou ill-mannered Tib!  Will you have a tuft from a beaver to stop the blood?”

“Thanks, madam, no, it is a small scratch.  I would, I would that I could face truer perils for this lady’s sake!”

“That I hope you will not, sir,” said Richard, in a serious tone, which conveyed a meaning to the ears of the initiated, though Will Cavendish only laughed, and said,

“Our kinsman takes it gravely!  It was in the days of our grandfathers that ladies could throw a glove among the lions, and bid a knight fetch it out for her love.”

“It has not needed a lion to defeat Mr. Babington,” observed Ned, looking up from his book with a sober twinkle in his eye, which set them all laughing, though his father declared that he ought to have his ears boxed for a malapert varlet.

Will Cavendish declared that the least the fair damsel could do for her knight-errant was to bind up his wounds, but Cis was too shy to show any disposition so to do, and it was Mrs. Talbot who salved the scratch for him.  She had a feeling for the motherless youth, upon whom she foreboded that a fatal game might be played.

When quiet was restored, Mr. Talbot craved license from his guests, and opened the packet.  There was a letter for Mistress Cicely Talbot in Queen Mary’s well-known beautiful hand, which Antony followed with eager eyes, and a low gasp of “Ah! favoured maiden,” making the good mother, who overheard it, say to herself, “Methinks his love is chiefly for the maid as something appertaining to the Queen, though he wots not how nearly.  His heart is most for the Queen herself, poor lad.”