“There’s nought to pay—it is a gift.” Nick hung his head, much troubled. What could he say; what could he think? This man had stolen him from home,—ay, made him tremble for his very life a dozen times,—and with his whole heart he knew he hated him—yet here, a gift! “Yes, Nick, it is a gift—and all because I love thee, lad.” “Love me?” “Why, surely! Who could see thee without liking, or hear thy voice and not love thee? Love thee, Nick? Why, on my word and honour, lad, I love thee with all my heart.” “Thou hast chosen strange ways to show it, Master Carew,” said Nick, and looked straight up into the master player’s eyes. Carew turned upon his heel and ordered the dinner. It was a good dinner: fat roast capon stuffed with spiced carrots; asparagus, biscuit, barley-cakes, and honey; and to end with, a flaky pie, and Spanish cordial sprinkled with burnt sugar. With such fare and a keen appetite, a marvelous brand-new suit of clothes, and Cicely chattering gaily by his side, Nick could not be sulky or doleful long. He was soon laughing; and Carew’s spirits seemed to rise with the boy’s. “Here, here!” he cried, as Nick was served the third time to the pie; “art hollow to thy very toes? Why, thou’lt eat us out of house and home—hey, Cicely? Marry come up, I think I’d best take Ned Alleyn’s five shillings for thine hire, after all! What! Five shillings? Set me in earth and bowl me to death with boiled turnips!—do they think to play bob-fool with me? Five shillings! A fico for their five shillings—and this for them!” and he squeezed the end of his thumb between his fingers. “Cicely, what dost think?—Phil Henslowe had the face to match Jem Bristow with our Nick!” “Why, daddy, Jem hath a face like a halibut!” “And a voice like a husky crow. Why, Nick’s mere shadow on the stage is worth a ton of Jemmy Bristows. ’Twas casting pearls before swine, Nick, to offer thee to Henslowe and Alleyn; but we’ve found a better trough than theirs—hey, Cicely Goldenheart, haven’t we? Thou art to be one of Paul’s boys.” “Paul who?” Carew lay back in his chair and laughed. “Paul who? Why, Saint Paul, Nick,—’tis Paul’s Cathedral boys I mean. Marry, what dost say to that?” “I’d like another barley-cake.” “You’d _what_?” cried the master-player, letting the front legs of his chair come down on the floor with a thump. “I’d like another barley-cake,” said Nick, quietly, helping himself to the honey. “Upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!” ejaculated Carew. “Tell a man his fortune’s made, and he calls for barley-cakes! Why, thou’dst say ‘Pooh!’ to a cannon-ball! My faith, boy, dost understand what this doth mean?” “Ay,” said Nick; “that I be hungry.” “But, Nick, upon my soul, thou art to sing with the Children of Paul’s; to play with the cathedral company; to be a bright particular star in the sweetest galaxy that ever shone in English sky! Dost take me yet?” “Ay,” said Nick, and sopped the honey with his cake.