"Methinks it scarce meet to go to the heathen for the pattern of a church," said Lady Louvaine; "are not our old churches fair enough, and suitable for their purpose?" "In this new fashion he no chancels," said Aubrey. "Well, and I should hold with that," cried Temperance: "they give rise to vain superstitions. If there be no mass, what lack we of a chancel?" "If men list, my dear, to bring in the superstitions," quietly remarked Lady Louvaine, "they shall scarce stick at the want of a chancel." "True, Madam: yet would I fain make it as hard to bring them as ever I could." Aubrey left his friends about six o'clock, and Hans followed him to the door. On the steps there was a short, low-toned conversation. "Hans, after all, thou art a good lad. Did I hurt thee?" "'Tis all o'er now, Aubrey: no matter." "Then I did. Well, I am sorry. Shall I give thee a silver chain to make up, old comrade?" "All is made up. Prithee, give me nothing--save--my brother Aubrey." Aubrey's tone was glib and light, though with a slight sub-accent of regret. Hans's voice was more hesitating and husky. It cost Hans much to allow any one a glimpse into his heart; it cost Aubrey nothing. But, as is often the case, the guarded chamber contained rare treasure, while in the open one there was nothing to guard. "Thou art a good lad!" said Aubrey again, in a slightly ashamed tone, as he took the offered hand. "Truly, Hans, I was after none ill, only-- well, I hate to be watched and dogged, or aught like thereto." "Who does not?" replied Hans. "And in truth likewise, I was but coming home, and spake my astonishment at seeing you." "We are friends, then?" "God forbid we should ever be any thing else! Good-night, and God keep you in His way!" Not many days afterwards, an event happened, of some consequence to our friends at the White Bear. Their one powerful friend, Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford, died in June, 1604.