marched in, with unrecognised step, for her shoes were new.

“Why, Mrs Philippa! your new shoes wrought that I knew not your step,” said Isoult, with a smile.

“New shoes!” said she, “yea, in good sooth. I flung both mine old ones after Frank; and had I had an hundred pairs in my cupboard, I had sent them all flying.”

The thought of a hundred pairs of shoes falling about, was too much for Isoult’s gravity.

“One of them smote the nag on his tail,” continued Philippa; “I warrant you it gave him a smart, for I sent it with all my might. ’Tis a good omen that—saving only that it might cause the beast to be restive.”

“Believe you in omens, Mrs Philippa?” answered Isoult.

“Not one half so much as I do believe in mine own good sense,” said she. “Yet I have known some strange things in my time. Well, what thinkest thou of this match of Frank’s?”

“I trust with all mine heart she may find it an happy and a comfortable,” was the reply.

“Ay, maybe a scrap of happiness shall not hurt her overmuch,” said Philippa in her dry way. “As to Mr Monke, I will wish him none, for methought from his face he were as full as he could hold; and an’ he had some trouble, he demeriteth it, for having away Frank.”

And so away she went, both laughing.

News that stirred every Gospeller’s heart reached Bradmond ere the Christmas of 1547. The Bloody Statute was repealed; and in every parish church, by royal order, a Bible and a copy of the Paraphrases of Erasmus were set open, for all the people to read.

But the repeal of the Bloody Statute, ardently as she desired it, was not without sad memories to Isoult Avery. The Act now abrogated had brought death, four years before, to one very dear to her heart; and it was not in human nature for her to hear of its destruction without a sigh given to the memory of Grace Rayleigh. In the churchyard at Bodmin were two nameless graves—of a husband and wife whom that Bloody Statute had parted, and who had only met at last in its despite, and to die. And when Grace had closed the eyes of her beloved, she lay down to her own long rest. Her work was finished in this world; and very welcome was the summons to her—“Come up higher.”

“From her long heart-withering early gone,
She hath lived - she hath loved - her task is done.”

Yet how was it possible to wish her back? Back to pain, and sorrow, and fear, and mournful memory of the far-off husband and the dead child! Back from the lighted halls of the Father’s Home, to the bleak, cold, weary wilderness of earth! Surely with Christ it was far better.

When Isoult came in comforted after her visit to Grace’s grave, Barbara, her parlour-maid, met her at the door.

“Mistress, a letter came for you in all haste shortly after you went forth,” said she. “I had come unto you withal, had I known whither you were gone.”

Isoult took the letter from Barbara’s hand. On the outside was written—the energetic ancient form of our mild direction “To be delivered immediately”—a rather startling address to the postman.

“Haste, haste, for thy life, haste!”

With forebodings travelling in more than one direction, Isoult cut the ribbon which fastened the letter and broke the seal. There were not a dozen lines written within; but her heart sank like lead ere she had read half of them.

The letter was from Crowe, and was signed by Mr George Basset, the eldest surviving son of Lady Lisle. He desired John Avery and his wife to hasten with all speed to Crowe, for Lady Lisle had been taken ill suddenly and dangerously, and they feared for her life. There was also an entreaty to bring Dr Thorpe, if he could possibly come; for at Crowe there was only an apothecary. Doctors, regularly qualified, were scarce in those days. All the scattered members of the family within reasonable distance had been summoned.

In as short a time as it was possible to be ready, John and Isoult set forth with Dr Thorpe, who said he could accompany them without more than temporary inconvenience to any of his patients. It was two days’ journey to Crowe; and Isoult’s heart sank lower and lower as they approached the house. But when they reached the end of the long lane which led to it, they suddenly encountered, at a turn in the road, the writer of the letter which had summoned them. It was an instant relief to see Mr George Basset smile and hold out his hand in welcome.

“Better news, thank God!” he said at once. “My mother hath rested well these two nights past, and is fairly amended this morrow. I am glad with all mine heart this bout is well over. It hath feared us no little, as I can tell you.”

With lighter hearts they rode to the door, where Isoult had no sooner alighted than she found herself drawn from behind into the arms of Lady Frances Monke, who had arrived the day before. Isoult followed her into the little parlour, where in a large carved chair she saw a very stiff and rich silk dress; and on looking a little higher, she found that chair and silk were tenanted by Mrs Wollacombe, Lady Lisle’s youngest daughter.

“Ah, Isoult, art thou come?” inquired that young lady, playing with her chatelaine. “I hope thou hast left thy childre behind. These childre be such plagues.”

“Hand me thine for a silver groat,” interrupted Philippa, coming in.

“Thou art welcome, an’ thou choose to take them,” replied her sister. “They do but rumple my ruffs and soil my gowns. They be for ever in some manner of mischievousness. I cannot keep them out thereof, for all I have two nursemaids, and Jack to boot.”

“Thou art little like, Mall, an’ thou add not thyself to the bargain,” answered Philippa, in her old mocking way. “Isoult, but for the pleasure of seeing thee, I could be sorry I sent after thee. My Lady my mother is so sweetly amending (thank all the saints for it!) that I am little pleased to have put thee to such charges and labour.”

“I pray you say no word of that, Mrs Philippa,” said Isoult, “for in very sooth it giveth me right hearty pleasure to see you.”

“Dr Thorpe,” continued Philippa, turning to him, “I am right glad to welcome you, and I thank you with all mine heart that you are come. Will you grant us the favour of your skill, though it be less needed than we feared, and take the pain to come up with me to see my Lady?”

Dr Thorpe assenting, she took him up-stairs; and the next minute Mr Monke, coming in, greeted his friends cordially. Then came Lady Ashley, sweet and gentle as ever, and afterwards Sir Henry Ashley and Mr Wollacombe.

“Mrs Philippa,” said Isoult, when she returned, “we will not be a charge on her Ladyship. Jack and I will lie at the inn, for assuredly she cannot lodge all us in this her house.”

“I thank thee truly, dear heart,” responded Philippa affectionately. “In good sooth, there is not room for all, howsoever we should squeeze us together; wherefore we must need disparkle (scatter) us. Verily, an’ we had here but James and Nan, there were not one of us lacking.”

“How fareth Mr James?” returned Isoult; “is he yet a priest?”

“He is now in London, with my Lord of Winchester,” (Bishop Gardiner) answered Philippa. “Nay, so far from priesthood that he is now on the eve of his wedding, unto one Mrs Mary Roper (daughter of the well-known Margaret Roper), grand-daughter of Sir Thomas More.”

It was late in the evening before Isoult could contrive to speak with Dr Thorpe in private; and then she asked him to tell her frankly how he thought Lady Lisle.

“Better this time,” said he, significantly.

“Think you as you did, then?” she asked.

“Ay, Mrs Avery,” said he, sadly, “I think as I did.”

After this, Isoult saw Lady Lisle herself, but only for a moment, when she struck her as looking very ill; but Philippa assured her that there could be no comparison with what she had been two days before.

The next morning, Isoult, with Lady Frances, Lady Ashley, and Philippa, sat for an hour in the invalid’s chamber. The conversation turned upon public affairs; and at last they began to talk of the pulling down of the roods, which Philippa opposed, while both Frances and Isoult pronounced them idols.

“Fight it out an’ ye will,” said the sick lady, laughing feebly, “only outside of my chamber.”

“Go thou down, Kate, and fetch up Mr Monke first,” responded Philippa; “for I am well assured my first blow should kill Frank an’ she had not his help.”

Thus playfully they chatted for a while, but Isoult fancied that Lady Lisle was scarcely so angrily earnest in her opposition to the doctrines of the Gospel as was generally her wont. Presently up came the untidy Deb, in all her untidiness, to say that dinner was served; and was parenthetically told by Philippa that she was a shame to the family.

“Which of us would you with you, Mother?” asked Frances.

“Why, none of you,” she replied. “Go down all, children; I lack nought; I am going to sleep.”

And she laid back her head on the pillow of her chair.

“Shall I not abide, Madam?” suggested Lady Ashley.

“No, child,” she answered. “When you come above ye shall find me asleep, if all go well.”

So, seeing she preferred to be left alone, they all went to dinner. When they returned, Lady Frances, Lady Ashley, and Isoult, went towards Lady Lisle’s chamber. Lady Ashley opened the door softly, and put her head in.

“Doth she sleep, Kate?” whispered Frances.

“Softly!” said Lady Ashley, withdrawing her head. “Let us not disturb her—she is so sweetly sleeping.”

Sleeping! ay, a sleep that should have no waking, From that sleep not the roaring of the winds, not the thunder of the tempest, not even the anguished voices of her children, should ever arouse her again.

“She had no priest, after all,” said Frances under her breath to Isoult, the same evening.

Lady Ashley added very softly, “She said we should find her asleep, if all went well. We found her asleep. Is it an omen that all did go well?”

Isoult could make no answer.

Where Honor Plantagenet was buried, no record remains to tell us, unless it be some early entry in a parish register of Cornwall or Devon. It might be in the family burying-place of her own kindred, the Grenvilles of Stow; or it might be with her first husband, Sir John Basset, at Umberleigh. Only it may be asserted without fear of contradiction, that it was not with the royal lord whom she had so bitterly lamented, and whose coffin lay, with many another as illustrious as his own, in the old Norman Chapel of the Tower. No stranger admixture can there be on earth, than among those coffins crowding that Norman Chapel,—from traitors of the blackest dye, up to saints and martyrs.

The first news which the Averys heard after their return home, was not encouraging to that religious party to which they belonged. Bishop Gardiner had been set free, and had gone back to his Palace at Farnham, Mr James Basset accompanying him. This was an evil augury; for wherever Gardiner was, there was mischief. But it soon appeared that Somerset kept his eye upon the wolf, and on his first renewed attempt upon the fold, he was quietly placed again in durance. Meanwhile the leaven of reformation was working slowly and surely. On Candlemas Day there were no candles in the Chapel Royal; no ashes on Ash Wednesday; no palms on Palm Sunday. At Paul’s Cross, after eight years’ silence, the earnest voice of Hugh Latimer was heard ringing: and to its sound flocked such a concourse, that the space round the Cross could not hold them, and a pulpit was set up in the King’s garden at Westminster Palace, where four times the number of those at the Cross might assemble. For eight years there had been “a famine of the word of the Lord” in England, and now men and women came hungering and ready to be fed. Perhaps, if we had borne eight years’ famine, we should not quite so readily cry out that the provisions are too abundant. An outcry for short sermons has always hitherto marked the spiritual decadence of a nation. “Behold, what a weariness is it!” There is another inscription on the reverse side of the seal. “I have no pleasure in you, saith the Lord of Hosts.”

The English service began with the following Easter. Confession—not yet abolished, yet so far relaxed as to be required of none who preferred to omit it—was made in English, and the Lord’s Supper was also celebrated in English at the King’s Chapel.

Isoult Avery began to think that she was to spend the year 1548 in visiting. She had not been long back from Crowe, when a letter reached her from her own home at Wynscote, inviting her to the wedding of her brother Hugh with Mrs Alice Wikes, which was to take place on the fourteenth of May. Jennifer Trevor shook her head in her most ominous style at the date. But Hugh, though a sailor, was nevertheless not at all superstitious, so far as concerned the point in question; and he had already sturdily declined to change the date selected by Alice, though half the gossips round Wynscote prophesied all manner of consequent evil. For a maiden of the sixteenth century, Alice also was remarkably free from the believing in omens and the observing of times: so Hugh and she were married on the fourteenth of May, and Isoult Avery was never able to discover that any harm had come of it.

On arrival at Wynscote, they found the house full and running over. Not only the family who ordinarily occupied it were there—namely, Mrs Barry, the widowed mother; Henry Barry, the head of the house, who was by calling a gentleman farmer, and by inclination the gentleman without the farmer; his wife Margaret, who would have made a better farmer than himself; and his three exceedingly noisy and mischievous boys, by name Michael, William, and Henry. But these, as I have said, were not by any means all. There was the bridegroom Hugh, who grumbled good-humouredly at being banished to Farmer Northcote’s for the night, for there was no room for him except in the day-time; there was Bessy Dennis, the eldest sister, and John Dennis her husband, and William, Nicholas, Anne, and Ellen, their children. No wonder that Isoult told her husband in confidence that she did not expect to lose her headache till she reached home. Will Barry was the incarnation of mischief, and Will Dennis, his cousin and namesake, followed him like his shadow. The discipline which ensued was of doubtful character, for Bessy’s two notions on the subject of rearing children were embodied in cakes or slaps, as they were respectively deserved, or rather, as she thought they were: while Mr Barry’s ideas of education lay in very oracular exhortations, stuffed with words of as many syllables as he had the good fortune to discover. His wife’s views were hardly better. Her interference consisted only in the invariable repetition of a formula—“Come, now, be good lads, do!”—which certainly did not err on the side of severity. But the grandmother, if possible, made matters worse. She had brought up her own children in abject terror and unanswering submission; and Nature, as usual, revenged herself by causing her never to cross the wills of her grandchildren on any consideration. Accordingly, when Will set fire to the barn, let the pony into the bean-field, and the cows into Farmer Northcote’s meadow, Grandmother only observed quietly that “Boys will be boys”—an assertion which certainly could not be contradicted—and went on spinning as before.

The amazement of Isoult Avery—who had not previously visited home for some time—was intense. Her childhood had been a scene of obedience, both active and passive; a birch-rod had hung behind the front door, and nobody had ever known Anne Barry hesitate to whip a child, if there were the slightest chance that he or