A portly, well-clad countryman, with a shrewd but good-humored countenance, and a wife beside him round and rosy of face as he, came bustling out of the private door. “How far yet, Master John?” he asked as he buckled on his cloak. “Forty-two miles to Oxford, sir,” replied the carrier. “We must be off if we’re to lie at Uxbridge overnight; for there hath been rain beyond, sir, and the roads be werry deep.” Nick stared at the man for Oxford. Forty-two miles to Oxford! And Oxford lay to the south of Stratford fifty miles and two. Ninety-four miles from Stratford town! Ninety-four miles from home! “When will my father come for us, Nick?” asked Cicely, turning her hand in the sun to see the red along the edges of her fingers. “Indeed, I can na tell,” said Nick; “Master Will Shakspere is coming anon, and I shall go with him.” “And leave me by myself?” “Nay; thou shalt go, too. Thou’lt love to see his garden and the rose-trees—it is like a very country place. He is a merry gentleman, and, oh, so kind! He is going to take me home.” “But my father will take us home when he comes.” “To Stratford town, I mean.” “Away from daddy and me? Why, Nick!” “But my mother is in Stratford town.” Cicely was silent. “Then I think I would go, too,” she said quite softly, looking down as if there were a picture on the ground. “When one’s mother is gone there is a hurting-place that nought doth ever come into any more—excepting daddy, and—and thee. We shall miss thee, Nick, at supper-times. Thou’lt come back soon?” “I am na coming back.” “Not coming back?” She laid the mutton-pie down on the bench. “No—I am na coming back” “Never?” “Never.” She looked at him as if she had not altogether understood. Nick turned away. A strange uneasiness had come upon him, as if some one were staring at him fixedly. But no one was. There was a Dutchman in the gate who had not been there just before. “He must have sprung up out of the ground,” thought Nick, “or else he is a very sudden Dutchman!” He had on breeches like two great meal-sacks, and a Flemish sea-cloth jacket full of wrinkles, as if it had been lying in a chest. His back was turned, and Nick could not help smiling, for the fellow’s shanks came out of his breeches’ bottoms like the legs of a letter A. He looked like a pudding on two skewers. Cicely slowly took up the mutton-pie once more, but did not eat. “Is na the pasty good?” asked Nick. “Not now,” said she. Nick turned away again. The Dutchman was not in the gate. He had crossed the inn-yard suddenly, and was sitting close within the shadow of the wall, though the sunny side was pleasanter by far. His wig was hanging down about his face, and he was talking with the tapster’s knave, a hungry-looking fellow clad in rusty black as if some one were dead, although it was a holiday and he had neither kith nor kin. The knave was biting his under lip and staring straight at Nick. “And will I never see thee more?” asked Cicely.