There was a knock at the door, and the usher announced that Sir Amias Paulett prayed to speak with her Grace.  Her eye glanced round with the rapid emotion of one doubtful whether it were for weal or woe, yet with undaunted spirit to meet either, and as she granted her permission, Cis heard her whisper to Nau, “A rider came up even now!  ’Tis the tidings!  Are the Catholics of Derby in the saddle?  Are the ships on the coast?”

In came the tall old man with a stiff reverence:  “Madam, your Grace’s horses attend you, and I have tidings”—­(Mary started forward)—­ “tidings for this young lady, Mistress Cicely Talbot.  Her brother is arrived from the Spanish Main, and requests permission to see and speak with her.”

Radiance flashed out on Cicely’s countenance as excitement faded on that of her mother:  “Humfrey!  O madam! let me go to him!” she entreated, with a spring of joy and clasped hands.

Mary was far too kind-hearted to refuse, besides to have done so would have excited suspicion at a perilous moment, and the arrangement Sir Amias proposed was quickly made.  Mary Seaton was to attend the Queen in Cicely’s stead, and she was allowed to hurry downstairs, and only one warning was possible: 

“Go then, poor child, take thine holiday, only bear in mind what and who thou art.”

Yet the words had scarce died on her ears before she was oblivious of all save that it was a familial home figure who stood at the bottom of the stairs, one of the faces she trusted most in all the world which beamed out upon her, the hands which she knew would guard her through everything were stretched out to her, the lips with veritable love in them kissed the cheeks she did not withhold.  Sir Amias stood by and gave the kindest smile she had seen from him, quite changing his pinched features, and he proposed to the two young people to go and walk in the garden together, letting them out into the square walled garden, very formal, but very bright and gay, and with a pleached alley to shelter them from the sun.

“Good old gentleman!” exclaimed Humfrey, holding the maiden’s hand in his.  “It is a shame to win such pleasure by feigning.”

“As for that,” sighed Cis, “I never know what is sooth here, and what am I save a living lie myself?  O Humfrey!  I am so weary of it all”

“Ah I would that I could bear thee home with me,” he said, little prepared for this reception.

“Would that thou couldst!  O that I were indeed thy sister, or that the writing in my swaddling bands had been washed out!—­Nay,” catching back her words, “I meant not that!  I would not but belong to the dear Lady here.  She says I comfort her more than any of them, and oh! she is—­she is, there is no telling how sweet and how noble.  It was only that the sight of thee awoke the yearning to be at home with mother and with father.  Forget my folly, Humfrey.”

“I cannot soon forget that Bridgefield seems to thee thy true home,” he said, putting strong restraint on himself to say and do no more, while his heart throbbed with a violence unawakened by storm or Spaniard.