In the cloister-like seclusion of Madam Isham's house Audrey had learned little more of real life than she had known as a child; and in that sheltered childhood what had she known? Her duty to God and to her neighbours she had learned, and many wise theories of civil government and of philosophy; but of the rough realities of life, of suspicion, of caution, she knew nothing. Petted by her grandfather, trusted by her father, adored by the servants and dependents to whom her slightest wish was law, she had learned to look with affectionate tolerance on the foolish ways of men, who being mostly old, or poor, or scholars, could not be expected to be as wise or as practical as such a young woman as Mistress Perrient. Now her little throne of feminine superiority seemed tottering. She had been frightened by a beggar, insulted by a jack-in-office, actually locked up by a constable! Her theory of life--if it had struck her to use such long words--seemed inadequate, and she did not see how to reconstruct it. She was tired--she was sad--her musings grew more confused; the grateful sense of being at home once more, the familiarity of her surroundings, the rest after the hurried ride through the storm, the luxurious chamber--so unlike the chilly attic where she had lain for many a winter night--all conspired to lull her into forgetfulness. Half dreaming, she murmured the words of the prayer said so often at her grand-father's knee: "Lighten our darkness we beseech Thee, O Lord, and by Thy great mercy defend us from all the perils and dangers of this night," and suddenly she was indeed a child once more. Such a weary little child, she could not keep her eyes open, it must surely be bedtime! Was that nurse's step on the stairs? She was not tired; she was no longer sleepy--that was forgotten! Nurse should not catch her! Here, under the great table, was a splendid hiding-place. The carved legs rose above her head like pillars, the Turkey carpet that covered it hung all around like a tent--if only grandad did not betray her! She would be quiet as a mouse, and he would never know she was there. He was walking up and down the chamber, with his hands clasped behind him; presently he turned and opened a cupboard, and brought out a leather box, and oh! such a lovely long string of shining beads. "Oh, grandad! grandad! be those for me?" she cried, springing from her hiding-place. "No, sweetheart, not yet awhile," answered Sir Gyles, lifting her on his knee; "these be the pearls good King Harry gave my grandmother; thou shalt wear them when thou art a great girl and goest to London town to see the king. But first thou must be tall--as tall as the chimney-piece!"