hailed her from the corner of Castle Street.

“Where you should have gone instead, Haimet—with the budget for water. Do go with me now.”

“Where on earth are you going—to Osney?”

“No, stupid boy: to Plato’s Well.”

“I’m not going there. I don’t mind Saint Maudlin’s, if you like.”

“We are out of the way to Saint Maudlin’s, or else I shouldn’t have minded—”

“No, my lady, I rather think you wouldn’t have minded the chance of a dance in Horsemonger Street. However, I’m not going to Plato’s Well. If you go with me, you go to Saint Maudlin’s; and if you don’t, you may find your way back by yourselves, that’s all.”

And laying his hands on the budget, Haimet transferred it from his sister’s keeping to his own.

Plato’s Well stood in Stockwell Street, on the further side of the Castle, and on the south of Gloucester Hall, now Worcester College. Fortified by her brother’s presence, Flemild turned after him, and they went up Castle Street, and along North Bayly Street into Bedford Lane, now the northern part of New Inn Hall Street. When they reached the North Gate, they had to wait to go out, for it was just then blocked by a drove of cattle, each of which had to pay the municipal tax of a halfpenny, and they were followed by a cart of sea-fish, which paid fourpence. The gate being clear, they passed through it, Flemild casting rather longing looks down Horsemonger Street (the modern Broad Street), where a bevy of young girls were dancing, while their elders sat at their doors and looked on; but she did not attempt to join them. A little further, just past the Church of Saint Mary Magdalen, they came to a small gothic building over a well. Here, for this was Saint Maudlin’s Well, Haimet drew the water, and they set forth on the return journey.

“Want to go after those damsels?” inquired the youth, with a nod in the direction of the dancers, as they passed the end of the street.

“N-o,” said Flemild. “Mother bade me haste back. Beside, they won’t be out many minutes longer. It isn’t worth while.”

“Like a woman,” retorted Haimet with a satirical grin; “the real reason always comes last.”

“What do you know about it?” answered his sister, not ill-humouredly, as they paused again at the North Gate. “O Haimet, what are those?”

A small company of about thirty—men, women, and a few children—were coming slowly down Horsemonger Street. They were attired in rough short tunics, warm sheepskin cloaks, heavy boots which had seen hard service, and felt hats or woollen hoods. Each man carried a long staff, and all looked as though they were ending a wearisome journey. Their faces had a foreign aspect, and most of the men wore beards,—not a very common sight in England at that date, especially with the upper classes. And these men were no serfs, as was shown by the respectability of their appearance, and the absence of the brazen neck-collar which marked the slave.

The man who walked first of the little company, and had a look of intelligence and power, addressed himself to the porter at the gate in excellent French—almost too excellent for comprehension. For though French was at that date the Court tongue in England, as now in Belgium, it was Norman French, scarcely intelligible to a Parisian, and still less so to a Provençal. The porter understood only the general scope of the query—that the speaker wished to know if he and his companions might find lodging in the city.

“Go in,” said he bluntly. “As to lodgings, the saints know where you will get them. There are dog-holes somewhere, I dare say.”

The leader turned, and said a few words to his friends in an unknown tongue, when they at once followed him through the gate. As he passed close by the girls, they noticed that a book hung down from his girdle—a very rare sight to their eyes. While they were watching the foreigners defile past them, the leader stopped and turned to Haimet, who was a little in advance of his sisters.

“My master,” he said, “would you for the love of God tell us strangers where we can find lodging? We seek any honest shelter, and ask no delicate fare. We would offend no man, and would gladly help with any household work.”

Haimet hesitated, and gnawed his under lip in doubtful fashion. Flemild pressed forward.

“Master,” she said, “if in truth you are content with plain fare and lodging, I think my mother would be willing to give room to one or two of the women among you, if they would pay her by aid in household work: and methinks our next neighbour would maybe do as much. Thinkest thou not so, Haimet?—Will you follow us and see?”

“Most gladly, maiden,” was the answer.

“My word, Flemild, you are in for it!” whispered Haimet. “Mother will be right grateful to you for bringing a whole army of strangers upon her, who may be witches for all you know.”

“Mother will be glad enough of a woman’s arms to help her, and let her rest her own,” replied Flemild decidedly; “and I am sure they look quite respectable.”

“Well, look out for storms!” said Haimet.

Flemild, who had acted on an impulse of compassionate interest, was herself a little doubtful how her action would be received at home, though she did not choose to confess it. They passed down North Gate Street (now the Corn-market), and crossing High Street, went a few yards further before they readied their own street. On their right hand stood the cooks’ shops, and afterwards the vintners’, while all along on their left ran the dreaded Jewry, which reached from High Street to what is now the chief entrance of Christ Church. The fletchers’ and cutlers’ stalls stood along this side of the street. Eastwards the Jewry stretched to Oriel Street, and on the south came very near the Cathedral Church of Saint Frideswide. The (now destroyed) Church of Saint Edward stood in the midst of it.

As our friends turned into their own street, they passed a girl of some seventeen years of age—a very handsome girl, with raven hair and dark brilliant eyes.

She smiled at Derette as she passed, and the child returned the silent salutation, taking care to turn her head so that her sister should not see her. A moment later they came to their own door, over which hung a panel painted with a doubtful object, which charity might accept as the walnut tree for which it was intended. Just as this point was reached, their mother came to the door, carrying a tin basin, from which she threw some dirty water where every body then threw it, into the gutter.

“Saint Benedict be merciful to us!” she cried, nearly dropping the basin. “What on earth is all this ado? And the children here in the midst of it! Holy Virgin, help us! There is nothing but trouble for a poor woman in this world. And me as good as a widow, and worse, too. Haimet! Flemild! whatever are you about?”

“Mother,” said Flemild in politic wise, “I have brought you some help. These good women here seek lodging for the night—any decent kind will serve them—and they offer to pay for it in work. It will be such a rest for you, Mother, if you will take in one or two; and don’t you think Franna would do the same, and old Turguia be glad of the chance?”

Isel stood with the basin in her hand, and a look half vexed, half amused, upon her face.

“Well! what is to be will be,” she said at last. “I suppose you’ve arranged it all. It’ll be grand rest to have every thing smashed in the house. Come in, friends, as many of you as like. Those that can’t find straw to lie on can sit on a budget. Blessed saints, the shiftlessness of girls!”

And with a tone of voice which seemed to be the deeper depth below despair itself, Isel led the way into the house.

Derette had fallen a little back, entranced by a sight which always attracted her. She loved any thing that she could pet, whether a baby or a kitten; and had once, to