Lucy had come home in a very captious mood, and declaring she was weary and had a pain in her head; she said she needed no supper, and went up to her little attic chamber in the roof of the house. Mary Gifford laid aside her long veil, and made a bowl of milk and brown bread ready for her boy; and then, while he ate it, pausing between every spoonful to ask his mother some question, she prepared the board for the guests, whom she knew her stepmother would probably bring in from the barn when the long prayer was over. Ambrose was always full of inquiries on many subjects, and this evening he had much to say about the picture-book Master Tom Sidney showed him--the man in the lions' den, and why they did not eat him up; the men in a big fire that were not burned, because God kept them safe. And then he returned to the hawk and the little bird, and wondered how many more the cruel hawk had eaten for his supper; and, finally, wished God would take care of the little birds, and let the hawk live on mice like the old white owl in the barn. The child's prattle was not heeded as much as sometimes, and Mary's answers were not so satisfactory as usual. He was like his Aunt Lucy, tired, and scarcely as much pleased with his day as he had expected to be; and, finally, his mother carried him off to bed, and, having folded his hands, made him repeat a little prayer, and then he murmured out in a sing-song a verse Ned the cowboy had taught him:-- Four corners to my bed, Four angels at my head; Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, Bless the bed I lie upon. Almost before the last word was said, the white lids closed over the violet eyes, and Ambrose was asleep. Mary stood over him for a minute with clasped hands. 'Ah! God keep him safe, nor suffer him to stray where danger lurks,' she said. Voices below and the sound of heavy feet warned her that the meeting in the barn was over, and her stepmother would require her presence. The little company which had met in the barn was composed of labourers and shepherds, with one or two of the better sort of work-people holding superior positions on the estate of the Sidneys. Mistress Forrester asked a tall man with a very nasal twang to bless the humble fare set before them, and a very long prayer followed before the benches were drawn closer to the board, and the large bowls of bread and milk, flavoured with strips of onion, were attacked by the hungry brethren with large, unwieldy, wooden spoons. Mary waited on the guests, and, filling a large earthen cup with cider, passed it round. One man who took a very prolonged pull at it, wiping his mouth with the flap of his short homespun cloak, said, in a mysterious whisper,-- 'There's a nest of Papists hiding in Tunbridge, and one of those emissaries of the Evil One is lurking about here, Mistress Forrester. Let us all be on guard.' 'Ay,' said another, 'I've seen him. He wears the priest's garb, and he is plotting mischief. What can he want here?'