The sun was shining brightly on the garden of a pretty Gothic mansion near the Thames, one glorious spring morning, about a week after the Lollard exiles had sailed from the Yorkshire coast. The house seemed to have fallen somewhat out of repair, and the garden looked as if a dozen gardeners might find employment in putting it in order for the summer. But still, nothing had an untidy aspect; there was rather a bright look about it, as if it were trying to put the very best face possible on the matter, and conceal the ravages of time by a veil of ivy and spring flowers. In one of the grassy paths, just where it divided to embrace a fallen sun-dial, stood a group matching well with the surrounding scene. The venerableness of the old mansion, the nobleness of the clinging ivy, and the bright freshness of the flowers had each its counterpart in the animate objects. The most prominent figure, perhaps, was that of an old white war-horse in faded trappings, but still retaining a trace of his former glories in the way he arched his neck and lifted his stiffened limbs. Leading him by the bridle was a fine-looking, weather-beaten old man, with somewhat of the old war-horse’s disposition, if one might judge from the piercing eyes which looked out from under shaggy gray brows, and the grim though kindly smile lighting up a face that would have been handsome if it had not been for the deep scar of a sword-cut which disfigured his brow and cheek. His smile was occasioned by the merry sallies of a little child of some four or five summers who was mounted on the horse’s back, but giving little heed to the management of his steed, and rather intent on ornamenting him with the flowers with which his lap was filled. He had thrown down his plumed cap on the grass, that he might have more space to bestow his treasures, and the sunbeams and the violets nestled together in the golden curls which the wind was sweeping back from his broad white brow, and rolling in shaded masses on his crimson velvet-dress. Two laughing blue eyes followed the motions of a pair of fat baby hands, as they tried to twine some primroses in the old charger’s stiff mane, where they were determined not to stay, but kept dropping out as fast as he put them in, strewing the ground beneath them. Sometimes, when he found a prettier one than usual, he would hold it out to a tall, noble-looking lady who walked at his side. "For you, mamma!" he would say, and the lady would receive the child’s gifts in her hand, but would not suffer him to put them in her hair. Her dress was that of a widow; and her pale, sad face and abstracted look, as if she were dwelling on a dreary past rather than a cheerful present, told that her grief was still fresh in her mind. All the little one’s merry shouts and loving speeches could only draw from her a faint, sad smile, that vanished again almost as soon as it appeared.