“Nay,” said Margery, “I have not much more to say.  We looked every day to hear some enquiries after the child, but nothing passed, nobody was missing.”

“Did nobody of note die about that time?” said Oswald.

“Why yes,” said Margery, “the widow Lady Lovel died that same week; by the same token, Andrew went to the funeral, and brought home a scutcheon, which I keep unto this day.”

“Very well; go on.”

“My husband behaved well enough to the boy, till such time as he had two or three children of his own; and then he began to grumble, and say, it was hard to maintain other folks’ children, when he found it hard enough to keep his own; I loved the boy quite as well as my own; often and often have I pacified Andrew, and made him to hope that he should one day or other be paid for his trouble; but at last he grew out of patience, and gave over all hopes of that kind.

“As Edmund grew up, he grew sickly and tender, and could not bear hard labour; and that was another reason why my husband could not bear with him.  ‘If,’ quoth he, ’the boy could earn his living, I did not care; but I must bear all the expence.[’] There came an old pilgrim into our parts; he was a scholar, and had been a soldier, and he taught Edmund to read; then he told him histories of wars, and knights, and lords, and great men; and Edmund took such delight in hearing him, that he would not take to any thing else.

“To be sure, Edwin was a pleasant companion; he would tell old stories, and sing old songs, that one could have sat all night to hear him; but, as I was a saying, Edmund grew more and more fond of reading, and less of work; however, he would run of errands, and do many handy turns for the neighbours; and he was so courteous a lad, that people took notice of him.  Andrew once catched him alone reading, and then told him, that if he did not find some way to earn his bread, he would turn him out of doors in a very short time; and so he would have done, sure enough, if my Lord Fitz-Owen had not taken him into his service just in the nick.”

“Very well, Goody,” said Oswald; “you have told your story very well; I am glad, for Edmund’s sake, that you can do it so properly.  But now, can you keep a secret?”

“Why, an’t please your reverence, I think I have shewed you that I can.”

“But can you keep it from your husband?”

“Aye,” said she, “surely I can; for I dare not tell it him.”

“That is a good security,” said he; “but I must have a better.  You must swear upon this book not to disclose any thing that has passed between us three, till we desire you to do it.  Be assured you will soon be called upon for this purpose; Edmund’s birth is near the discovery; He is the son of parents of high degree; and it will be in his power to make your fortune, when he takes possession of his own.”

“Holy Virgin! what is it you tell me?  How you rejoice me to hear, that what I have so long prayed for will come to pass!”