Lily began: ‘I meant to have two parts about Sir Maurice going out to fight when he was very young, and then about his brothers being killed, and King Charles knighting him, and his betrothed, Phyllis Crossthwayte, embroidering his black engrailed cross on his banner, and then the taking the castle, and his being wounded, and escaping, and Phyllis not thinking it right to leave her father; but I have not finished that, so now you must hear about his return home.’ ‘A romaunt in six cantos, entitled Woe woe, By Miss Fanny F. known more commonly so,’ muttered Claude to himself; but as Lily did not understand or know whence his quotation came, it did not hurt her feelings, and she went merrily on:— ‘’Tis the twenty-ninth of merry May; Full cheerily shine the sunbeams to-day, Their joyous light revealing Full many a troop in garments gay, With cheerful steps who take their way By the green hill and shady lane, While merry bells are pealing; And soon in Beechcroft’s holy fane The villagers are kneeling. Dreary and mournful seems the shrine Where sound their prayers and hymns divine; For every mystic ornament By the rude spoiler’s hand is rent; Scarce is its ancient beauty traced In wood-work broken and defaced, Reft of each quaint device and rare, Of foliage rich and mouldings fair; Yet happy is each spirit there; The simple peasantry rejoice To see the altar decked with care, To hear their ancient Pastor’s voice Reciting o’er each well-known prayer, To view again his robe of white, And hear the services aright; Once more to chant their glorious Creed, And thankful own their nation freed From those who cast her glories down, And rent away her Cross and Crown. A stranger knelt among the crowd, And joined his voice in praises loud, And when the holy rites had ceased, Held converse with the aged Priest, Then turned to join the village feast, Where, raised on the hill’s summit green, The Maypole’s flowery wreaths were seen; Beneath the venerable yew The stranger stood the sports to view, Unmarked by all, for each was bent On his own scheme of merriment, On talking, laughing, dancing, playing— There never was so blithe a Maying. So thought each laughing maiden gay, Whose head-gear bore the oaken spray; So thought that hand of shouting boys, Unchecked in their best joy—in noise; But gray-haired men, whose deep-marked scars Bore token of the civil wars, And hooded dames in cloaks of red, At the blithe youngsters shook the head, Gathering in eager clusters told How joyous were the days of old, When Beechcroft’s lords, those Barons bold, Came forth to join their vassals’ sport,