He caught me in his arms, kissing my forehead, called me his brave maid, his good girl, and I know not what else, and swearing a great oath, as his fashion is, that I should marry whom I liked and no one should hint a word against me. I got him quieted at last, and set down to his supper, and then stole away, promising to bring him news from time to time. But when I went down again, at the end of an hour, he was fast asleep and snoring on the settle, so I even let him sleep. The night wore slowly away, and still the doctor did not come. But I dare say we were as well without him. Between five and six, just as the gray dawn began to show in faint streaks above the high moor, there was a bustle in my Lady's room—and then—oh, sound of joy, which I well knew—the cry of a little babe. I sprang to my feet, but dared not go near the door. Presently, after what seemed an age of suspense, Madam opened it, her dear fair face all flushed with joy! "Good news, Margaret! We have two bouncing boys—and I believe the mother will do well, in spite of all! Go you and tell my Lord—you have well earned the right—but do not let him come up-stairs, just yet!" I ran softly but quickly enough down-stairs to the hall, where I found my Lord awake, rubbing his eyes and shivering. He started up when he saw me. "Good news, my Lord—the best of news," I cried out. "Two nice lads—and my Lady is doing well!" "What!" said he, staring, as if he had not taken in my words. I repeated them. "But my wife—Elizabeth!" he said, paler than I ever could have believed possible. "How is she doing? Will she live?" "I believe she will!" I said. "Madam thinks so, but she bids you not come up just yet!" I shall ever like my Lord the better for what followed. The great strong, soldierly man fell on his knees, and, amid streaming tears and sobs which shook him like an infant, gave broken and heartfelt thanks to Heaven for his wife's deliverance. I cried heartily, and the tears seemed to wash from my heart the bitterness and weight which had lain there all night, ever since Lady Jemima had trodden under foot Walter's picture. "But the bearer of good news must be rewarded!" said my Lord, when he had calmed himself a little—(I saw with pleasure that he seemed no ways ashamed of his emotion). "What shall I do for you, Margaret?" "If I might ask so much!" said I. "Let me hear it!" said he. "It will be hard if you ask what I cannot grant." "It is that you will go and carry Lady Betty the good news yourself, my Lord!" I said. "It will be better to her from your lips than from any other source, and it may prevent some jealous fancies, such as children sometimes have." "You are always thinking of your bantling!" said he, evidently well-pleased. "I bade you ask something for yourself."