Will and Dickon, thus addressed, promptly knelt down, one on each side of his mother, and Will proceeded to gabble over his prayers, followed by Dickon with articulate sounds which had no other merit than that of bearing some resemblance to the words in question. The boys commenced by crossing themselves, then they raced through the Paternoster, the Angelical Salutation, and the Creed, all in Latin; of course without the faintest idea of any meaning. They then repeated a short prayer in English, entreating the Virgin, their guardian angels, and their patron saints, to protect them during the night. This done, Will rattled off half a dozen lines (carefully emphasising the insignificant words), which alone of all the proceeding had either interest or meaning in his eyes. "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Bless the bed that I lie on: Four corners to my bed, Four angels at their head-- One to read, and one to write, And two to guard my bed at night." "Good lads!" said Mistress Flint, as she rose and restored the crucifix which she had been holding before the boys to its usual place. "Mother!" said Will, who was inconveniently intelligent, "who be Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John? Doth it mean Luke Dobbs, and Father?" Mr Flint indulged himself in a quiet laugh. "Nay, dear heart!" answered his mother. "Those be the holy Apostles, that writ the Evangels." "What be the Evangels, Mother?" "Did ever one see such a lad to put questions?" demanded Mistress Flint. "Why, child, they be writ in the great Bible, that lieth chained in the Minster." "What be they about, Mother?" "Come, lad, if I tarry to answer all thy talk, thou shalt not be abed this even," responded Mistress Flint discreetly; for this was a query which she would have found it hard to answer; and with a playful show of peremptoriness, she drove Will and Dickon upstairs to the bedchamber, in which slept the five boys of the family. There was a minute's silence, only broken by the movements of Helen and Anne, who were putting away the bowls, jugs, and trenchers which had been used at supper, when suddenly Mr Flint said--to nobody in particular-- "What _be_ they about?" His daughters looked up, and then resumed their occupation, with a shake of the head from Anne, and a little laugh from Helen. "Methinks, Master," said Agnes rather diffidently, "'tis about God, and His love to men." "What thereabout?" replied he, continuing to look into the fire. "Why, Master," said Agnes, "surely you do wit better than I." "Well, I wit nought thereabout, nor never want," said Anne a little pettishly. "'Twill be time enough when I have the years o' my grandame, I guess, to make me crabbed and gloomsome." Agnes looked at her in amazement. "Nan," said her father, "I heard thee this morrow a-singing of a love-song." "Well, so may you yet again," said she, laughing. "That made thee not gloomsome, trow?" he asked. "Never a whit! how should it?" replied Anne, still laughing.