Cicely stared around perplexed. “Won’t Nick be there?” she asked. “Why, then I will not go—they shall not take thee from me, Nick!” and she threw her arms around him. “I’m going to stay with thee till daddy comes, and be thine own sister forever.” Master Jonson laughed gently, not his usual roaring laugh, but one that was as tender as his own bluff heart. “Why, good enough, good enough! The woman who mothered a lad like Master Skylark here is surely fit to rear the little maid.” The London players thumped the table. “Why, ’tis the very trick,” said Hemynge. “Marry, this is better than a play.” “It is indeed,” quoth Condell. “See the plot come out!” “Thou’lt do it, Attwood—why, of course thou’lt do it,” said Master Shakspere. “’Tis an excellent good plan. These funds we hold in trust will keep thee easy-minded, and warrant thee in doing well by both our little folks. And what’s more,” he cried, for the thought had just come in his head, “I have ever heard thee called an honest man; hard, indeed, perhaps too hard, but honest as the day is long. Now I need a tenant for this New Place of mine—some married man with a good housewife, and children to be delving in the posy-beds outside. What sayst thou, Simon Attwood? They tell me thy ’prentice, Job Hortop, is to marry in July—he’ll take thine old house at a fair rental. Why, here, Neighbor Attwood, thou toil-worn, time-damaged tanner, bless thy hard old heart, man, come, be at ease—thou hast ground thy soul out long enough! Come, take me at mine offer—be my fellow. The rent shall trickle off thy finger-tips as easily as water off a duck’s back!” Simon Attwood arose from the chair where he had been sitting. There was a bewildered look upon his face, and he was twisting his horny fingers together until the knuckles were white. His lips parted as if to speak, but he only swallowed very hard once or twice instead, and looked around at them all. “Why, sir,” he said at length, looking at Master Shakspere, “why, sirs, all of ye—I ha’ been a hard man, and summat of a fool, sirs, ay, sirs, a very fool. I ha’ misthought and miscalled ye foully many a time, and many a time. God knows I be sorry for it from the bottom of my heart!” And with that he sat down and buried his face in his arms among the dishes on the buffet. “Nay, Simon Attwood,” said Master Shakspere, going to his side and putting his hand upon the tanner’s shoulder, “thou hast only been mistaken, that is all. Come, sit thee up. To see thyself mistaken is but to be the wiser. Why, never the wisest man but saw himself a fool a thousand times. Come, I have mistaken thee more than thou hast me; for, on my word, I thought thou hadst no heart at all—and that is far worse than having one which has but gone astray. Come, Neighbor Attwood, sit thee up and eat with us.” “Nay, I’ll go home,” said the tanner, turning his face away that they might not see his tears. “I be a spoil-sport and a mar-feast here.”