“Because it must be pain to you to hear her name spoken in love and kindness; and she _is_ my mother.” “Nay,” said Edith, earnestly, “in sooth I know not aught of the Lady Dacre save her name, and wherefore should there be pain to me in that?” “Is it so?” exclaimed Sir Philip, rising from his seat, “is it indeed so? Then you know not that there is a kindred between--you know not. Ah, Mistress Edith, I believed not there could be charity so great as this!” Edith was startled. “I pray you be seated, Sir Philip; my father will be here anon: and truly I know not what you say, nor what is this that my father hath hidden from me; but indeed he hath said naught to me at any time of the Lady Dacre, and it is but of late that I have heard so much as her name. And has she left this terror-stricken place, that you speak of her thus, Sir Philip?” “Nay, nay,” said the young man, checking himself as he resumed his seat. “She is proud and bold, Mistress Edith, and defies this deadly enemy, who will not brook mortal defiance. I have urged her with all my might to escape this peril, but she will not hear me; and the more I entreat, she doth but stand the firmer, and I must submit.” “And you?” said Edith--there was beginning to spring up a confidence of youthful friendship between the twain. “I also must surely stay,” said Sir Philip; “not that I would choose it, but that I will not leave my mother here alone; and I came to Master Field to ask if I could serve in any way--for you shame us, Mistress Edith, with your gentle valor.” “Ah, yonder is my father,” said Edith, “and Master Chester, Sir Philip, who is in Westminster; “I will tell them of your coming,” and she went forth hastily to meet them. “And is it thou, gentle Philip Dacre, mine old pupil,” said Master Chester, entering, his trim dress not a whit less particular than when all was prosperous health and peace in London; “and where hast thou been spending thy green years, my good youth? preparing for thy grave years, as I shall trust, and laying up stores that shall not fade, for the solace of those times that shall fade; thou art well met, Sir Philip. And what say they in old Oxford to those changes? They will bethink themselves, doubtless, of how they were clouded at our rising, and will e’en deem it rare justice that we should be clouded at our falling; but we live yet, thou seest.” “And will, I trust, in better times,” said the young man, pressing warmly the hand of his old tutor, whom he had last seen in the classic halls of Oxford, and breathing a still atmosphere of academic ease and leisure, very different from the present scene.