"Aye. There is the rub," answered her grandmother. "But, little maid, we all have to come to that some time." "’Tis as well to begin early, Doll," said her uncle. "Please it you, Uncle Maurice," replied Dorathie, rubbing the tears out of her eyes with her small hands, "I’d rather begin late!" Her father laughed. "Folks must needs go forth into the world, Doll," said he. "Thou mayest have to do the like thine own self some day." "Shall I so?" asked Dorathie, opening her eyes wide. "Then, an’ it like your good Lordship, may I go where Frid and Annis shall be?" "Thou wilt very like go with Frid or Annis, it we can compass it," replied her father; "but they will not be together, Doll." "Not together!" cried Dorathie in a tone of disappointed surprise. "Nay: Frideswide goeth to my good Lady of Warwick at Middleham; and Agnes to London town, to serve my Lady’s Grace of Exeter in her chamber." "Then they’ll be as unhappy as me!" said Dorathie, with a very sorrowful shake of her head. "I thought they were going to be happy." "They shall be merry as crickets!" answered her father. "My Lady of Warwick hath two young ladies her daughters, and keepeth four maidens in her bower; and my Lady’s Grace of Exeter hath likewise a daughter, and keepeth other four maids to wait of her. They are little like to be lonely." Her grandmother understood the child’s feeling, but her father did not. And Dorathie was dimly conscious that it was so. She dropped another courtesy, and crept back to Frideswide in the window-seat,—not comforted at all. There they sat and listened to the conversation of their elders round the fire. Frideswide was sewing busily, but Dorathie’s hands were idle. The season was early autumn, and the trees outside were just beginning to show the yellow leaf here and there. The window in which the two girls sat, a wide oriel, opened on a narrow courtyard, in front of which lay a garden of tolerable size, wherein pinks, late roses, and other flowers were bowing their heads to the cool breeze of the Yorkshire wolds. The court-yard was paved with large round stones, not pleasant to walk on, and causing no small clatter from the hoofs of the horses. A low parapet wall divided it from the garden, which was approached by three steps, thus making the court into a wide terrace. Beyond the garden, a crenellated wall some twelve feet high shut out the prospect. What it shut out beside the prospect was a great deal, of which little was known to Frideswide, and much less to Dorathie. They lived at a period of which we, sheltered in a country which has not known war for two hundred years, can barely form an adequate idea. For fourteen years—namely, since Frideswide was five years old, and longer than Dorathie’s life—England had been torn asunder by civil warfare. Nor was it over yet. The turbulent past had been sad enough, but the worst was yet to come.