From that evening the rabble of Lud-in-the-Mist ceased to give any trouble. When the Yeomen stationed on the border were recalled to Lud and spread the news that they had seen Master Nathaniel riding alone towards the Elfin Marches, Dame Marigold was condoled with as a widow, and went into complete retirement, refusing even to see her oldest friends, although they had all come to regret their unjust suspicions of Master Nathaniel, and were, in consequence, filled with contrition, and eager to prove it in services to his wife. Occasionally she made an exception for Master Ambrose; but her real support and stay was old Hempie. Nothing could shake the woman's conviction that all was well with the Chanticleers. And the real anchor is not hope but faith--even if it be only somebody else's faith. So the gay snug little room at the top of the house, where Master Nathaniel had played when he was a little boy, became Dame Marigold's only haven, and there she would spend the most of her day. Though Hempie never forgot that she was only a Vigil, nevertheless, in her own way, she was growing fond of her. Indeed, she had almost forgiven her for having spilled her cup of chocolate over her sheets, when, after her betrothal, she had come on a visit to Master Nathaniel's parents--almost, but not quite, for to Hempie the Chanticleers' linen was sacrosanct. One night, at the beginning of December, when the first snow was lying on the ground, Dame Marigold, who had almost lost the power of sleep, was tossing wakefully in her bed. Her bedroom ran the whole length of the house, so one of its windows looked out on the lane, and suddenly she heard what sounded like low knocking on the front door. She sat up and listened--there it was again. Yes, someone was knocking at the door. She sprang from bed, flung on a cloak and hurried downstairs, her heart beating violently. With trembling fingers she drew the bolts and flung wide the door. A small, slight figure was cowering outside. "Prunella!" she gasped. And with a sort of sob Prunella flung herself into her mother's arms. For some minutes they stood crying and hugging each other, too profoundly moved for questions or explanations. But they were roused by a scolding voice from the stairs: "Dame Marigold, I'm ashamed of you, that I am, not having more sense at your age than to keep her standing there when she must be half frozen, poor child! Come up to your room this minute, Miss Prunella, and no nonsense! I'll have your fire lighted and a warming-pan put in your bed." It was Hempie, candle in hand, frowning severely from under the frills of an enormous nightcap. Prunella rushed at her, half laughing, half crying, and flung her arms round her neck.