'I'd walk a hundred miles to serve you, Mistress; I'd even ride 'em for your sake. But, oh, Lord! I am sore to-day with the cramp I got a-horseback. Here is a letter from Master Ratcliffe; he bid me put into your hands and into none other, and I have kept to the order. Take it, Mistress.' Mary held out her hand, and took the much crumpled and soiled letter from Ned's large, brown fingers. But she had not opened it when Humphrey Ratcliffe himself came up to the porch, and stopped short on the threshold as if struck by some sudden blow. He was not prepared to see so great a change in Mary in so short a time. Pain of body, however severe, nor the deep cut in her forehead, could hardly have left such traces of suffering on her face--still, in Humphrey's eyes, beautiful, though with lines of sorrow round her mouth and eyes. 'Enter, my kind friend,' Mary said, in a low, sweet voice, holding out her hand to him. 'This good Ned,' she said, 'has faithfully performed his errand, and deserves our thanks.' Ned, bashful and awkward, made for the door and disappeared. 'But what news? Is there aught to tell me of my child?' Humphrey had by this time advanced to the settle, and, kneeling by it, he took Mary's hand in his, and kissed it gently and reverently. 'I could find no trace of the boy in Tunbridge. The whole colony of Papists has broken up and fled. Some of their number have been thrown into prison, awaiting judgment for conspiracy. I did not tarry, therefore, at Tunbridge, but rode on here last night.' 'Yes,' Mary said. 'I heard your voice; and now--now what next?' 'It is my purpose to follow that villain who kidnapped the boy, and regain possession of him. It is a puzzle to me to understand why he should steal him.' 'He is so handsome, so clever,' his mother said. 'Humphrey, I cannot, I cannot lose him. I must find him; and he will break his heart for his mother,' she said passionately. 'His mother! bereft and desolate without him.' 'We will find him,' Humphrey said, 'never fear. My noble master has given me leave to go on the quest to France, or, it may be, the Low Countries, for the Papists have schools and centres of worship in all the Protestant towns.' 'The Low Countries,' Mary said, 'I have a friend there, at Arnhem, one George Gifford; he is an honest and godly minister. In my first grief and despair years ago, I sent a letter to him for counsel. He was then in England, and acted a father's part by me, though only my husband's uncle. Yes, I will go to him as soon as I can put my foot on the ground. I will leave all things, and go on the quest myself--alone.' 'Not alone!' Humphrey said, 'not alone, but with me. Oh, Mary! I will tend you and care for you, and we will seek together for _our_ boy--mine as yours, yours as mine. We will go to this good man of whom you speak, and all will be well. God will speed us.' 'Nay, dear friend,' Mary said. 'Nay, it cannot be. I can never be your wife.'