While the party were still conversing, the post came in--always an important event at that day--and brought two letters for Isoult. The first was from Beatrice Dynham [fictitious persons], who had been her fellow bower-woman with the Duchess of Suffolk, and requested her old friend to remember her in the first week in May, when she was to marry Mr Vivian [a fictitious person], a gentleman of the late King's household. She also informed her that the young Duke of Suffolk, a boy of eleven years, had been placed about the person of the young Sovereign, under the care of the Duke of Somerset. The second letter was from Crowe. Lady Ashley had arrived, and had tried hard to effect a truce between the contending parties, she hoped not entirely without good results. Lady Lisle had been obliged to sell two pieces of land from the Frithelstoke estate, called Choldysoke and Meryfield; and Philippa Basset sent Isoult word that it was well Meryfield was sold, seeing that all mirth had departed from them long ago. "When shall my mistress your friend be wed, Mrs Avery?" very gravely inquired Jennifer Trevor, Isoult's bower-woman. "The first week in May," repeated Isoult, referring to the letter. "Ay, methought you read so much," responded Jennifer, looking still more solemn. "Come, out with your thought, Mrs Trevor," said Tremayne; "for I do see plainly that you have one." "Why, Mr Tremayne," replied she, "'tis but that I would not be wed in May for all the gold in Cornwall." "But how if your servant [suitor] were a sailor, Mrs Jennifer, and should set forth the last day of May?" queried Avery. "Then," she said, "I would either be wed in April, or he should wait till he came back. But 'tis true, Mrs Avery, a May babe never liveth, no more than a May chick thriveth; nor is a May kit ever a mouser. 'Tis the unluckiest month in all the year. I never brake in all my life a steel glass [looking-glass] saving once, and that was in May; and sure enough, afore the same day next May died one on that farm." "One of the household?" asked Avery. "Well, nay," answered Jennifer, "'twas but the old black cow, that had been sick a month or more." "Ah!" was the grave answer; "her dying was a marvel!" "But there was a death, Mr Avery!" urged Jennifer. "An' there had not been," said he, "I count you should have drowned the cat, to make one. But, Mrs Jennifer, in sober sadness, think you that God keepeth record of the breaking of steel glasses and the ticking of death-watches?" "Eh, those death-watches!" cried she; "I were out of my wit if I heard one." "Then I trust you shall not hear one," answered he, "for I desire that you should keep in your wit." "Well, Mr Avery!" said Jennifer, "I could tell you somewhat an' I listed." "Pray give us to hear it," replied he. "What is it? and whom threatens it? The red cow or the tabby cat? Poor puss!" and he stooped down and stroked her as she lay on the hearth.