white; pilgrims—but foreigners, men of Flanders with richly dyed woollen stuffs, woven from English wool; merchants from the Hans towns displaying costly furs; eastern vendors of frankincense, and spices, and sugar; Lombard usurers; even the Chinaman from Cathay, as China was then called, with his stores of delicate porcelain—each and all calling attention to their wares, and inviting the passers-by, whether nobles or churls, to buy.

The fair originated in a grant to the hospital of lepers at Cambridge, bestowed by King John. It opened on the nineteenth of September, continued for two or three weeks, and was under the control of the master of the leper-house, no slight undertaking when the great concourse of people is considered, for not only had they to be housed and fed, but at a time when carriages and carts were unknown, and men and merchandise were alike carried on horses and mules, there must necessarily have been a vast number of beasts to keep. Protection had to be afforded against possible attacks of robbers or outlaws, and—almost the most difficult task of all—it was necessary to check as far as possible quarrels which frequently arose between the haughty barons or their retainers, as also to protect the foreigners from the rough treatment which it was not unlikely they would receive should anything excite the people against them. Particularly, and it must be owned justly, was this at times the case with the usurers.

But though the nominal business of the fair consisted in trading, money-getting, and money-lending, there were plenty of shows and amusements to attract those who loved laughter. In one part a number of lads were throwing the bar, in another they were playing at what seemed a rough kind of tennis. Merry Andrews tumbled on the green, rope dancers performed prodigies of activity; here men played at single-stick, wrestled, or shot at a mark; at another place were the jongleurs or conjurers, and in yet another a bespangled company of dancing dogs, which excited the lordly contempt of Wolf.

“These fellows have rare skill,” said Edgar, watching a conjurer effect a neat multiplication of balls.

“Stay and watch them,” said the friar. “Thy father will not yet have ridden back from Cambridge, and thou art not wanted in the house. I will go and do my best to gain Mistress Judith’s good aid for this urchin, and after that, if he will, he may show me where he lodges.”

Sir Thomas de Trafford, knight of the shire, and father of the lad Edgar, had found accommodation for his family in a house which we should now consider very inadequate for such a purpose, though it was then held to have made a considerable stride towards absolute luxury from being able to boast a small parlour, or talking room. Neither glass nor chimneys, however, were yet in use, although the latter were not unknown, and had crept into some of the greater castles. Fires were made in the centre of the rooms, and the pungent wood smoke made its escape as best it could through door or windows, which in rough weather or at night were protected by a lattice of laths.

The friar, however, went no further than the passage, where he called for Mistress Judith, and was presently answered in person by a somewhat crabbed-looking personage, who listened sourly to his entreaty that she would do something towards stitching together Hugh’s unfortunate jerkin.

“The poor varlet has no mother,” he ended. But Mistress Judith pursed her mouth.

“The more need he should be careful of his clothing,” she was beginning, when suddenly with a rush two little golden-haired girls of not more than four or five came running along the passage, calling joyfully upon Friar Nicholas, and clinging to his grey cloak.

“Thou wilt take us to the fair, wilt thou not?”

“And let us see the monkey that runs up the ladder, and the dancing bear, and—we have some nuts for the monkey.”

Mistress Judith’s face relaxed.

“Nay, now, children, ye must not be troublesome. The good friar has doubtless other business on hand—”

“I’ll take them, I’ll take them,” said the friar, hastily, “if you will put the boy in order by a few touches of your skilful handiwork. As soon as I have bestowed him in safety I will return for them.”

“To see the monkey,” persisted little Eleanor.

“Ay, if thou wilt—” He was interrupted by a pull of the sleeve from Hugh.

“So please you, holy friar,” said the boy shyly, “the monkey is at our lodging.”

“What, is that the poor beast which those young villains would have stoned? Nay, then, hearken, little maidens. The monkey has been in evil case, and was like to be in worse but for this boy, Hugh Bassett. And the cruel varlets who would have killed it set upon him for delivering it, and though he fought right sturdily he would have been in evil case but for Wolf.”

“Our Wolf?”

“Even so. What say you now?”

“He is a good boy,” said the little Anne gravely. Eleanor went nearer, and looked steadfastly at Hugh.

“Is the poor monkey at your house?”

“Ay, little mistress.”

“Shall we come and see him?”

Hugh looked uncertainly at the friar, and the friar at Mistress Judith. Mistress Judith threaded her needle afresh.

“If my lady—” began the friar.

“My lady does not permit my young mistresses to run about the fair like churls’ children,” interrupted the nurse sourly. “Marry, come up! I marvel your reverence should have thought of such a thing.”

She was interrupted in her turn. Eleanor had clambered on a chair and flung her arms round her neck, laying hold of her chin and turning it so as to look in her face, and press her rosy lips to her cheek.

“Nay, nay, mother said we should see the monkey! Thou wilt come with us, and Friar Nicholas, and this good boy. Say yea, say yea, good nurse!”

Mistress Judith, rock with all others, was but soft clay in the hands of her nurslings. She remonstrated feebly, it is true, but Eleanor had her way, and it was not long before the little party set forth, the children indulging in many skips and jumps, and chattering freely in their graceful langue de Provence.

There was so much to see, and so many remarks to be made on many things, such wonderful and undreamt of crowds, such enchanting goods, such popinjays, such booths of cakes, such possibilities of spending a silver penny, that it seemed as if the sacristan’s house would never be reached, and ’twas easy to see it cost the children something to turn from the fair towards the church. Perhaps Anne would have consented to put their object aside and remain in this busy scene of enchantment. But nothing to Eleanor could balance her desire to see the monkey, and they went their way with no further misadventure than arose from the bag of nuts slipping from her little fingers, and the nuts scattering in all directions.

The sacristan’s house consisted of but one room, with the fire as usual in the centre. The sacristan himself was in the church; over the fire sat a thin pale-faced man, engaged in putting the last strokes to a carved oaken box of most delicate workmanship. The monkey, which had been sitting with him, directly the little party appeared, uttered a cry of fear, sprang on the high back of a bench, and from thence to the uncovered rafters of the roof, where it sat jabbering indignantly, and glancing at the visitors with its