"There, mother, I knew he liked me, for all thou saidst my borrowing of his sword and cloak did anger him. Every one likes me. Couthin Mary says so." "Vain popinjay! thou art too credulous of flattery." "Would Couthin Mary tell a lie?" "Never mind that question now, but don thy best clothing for the ceremony of receiving the homage of thy tenant this morning." "Hooray! Am I to wear my morocco shoes with the red satin roses?" "Ay." "And my thilver-broidered doublet?" "Ay, little peacock." "And my stockings with the clocks of gold? Oh, Mother, it makes me feel so grand! I like being lord of the manor. And Thir Chrithtopher Neville must kneel before me; and how if I tickle him on the neck when he bends, and make him laugh out before them all?" "Cecil, if thou dost disgrace me by any of thy clownish pranks, thou and I will never be friends more. And give thyself no airs either with this kind new friend. Say to thyself, when he bows before thee, that it is strength bending to weakness, and pride stooping that it may help the helpless." "Do I stand on the platform at the end of the hall where Couthin Mary stands when her tenants come in?" "Yes, with Cousin Mary and me beside thee." "I hope Thir Chrithtopher trips on the step. But I like him, for all he hath the eyes of a hawk and the mouth of a mastiff." "Well thou mayst like him! Friends like him are scarce enough anywhere, and most of all in this new land. Now run away and make haste lest we vex Cousin Mary by our tardiness, and so begin awry the day which should open with all good omens. But, Cecil, I have a gift for thee, something I gave thy father on our marriage. I did think to keep it till thou shouldst be of age; but on the whole I would rather thou hadst it to remember this day by." So speaking, Elinor unlocked her jewel-chest of black oak bound with brass, and drew from within a pomander-box of gold, the under lid pierced with holes which permitted the fragrance to escape till it nearly filled the room with the mingled odor of rose attar and storax, civet and ambergris, the upper lid adorned with a miniature of Elinor Calvert painted on ivory and set in pearls like the picture of Cecil which she wore at her breast. The artist had worked as one who loves his task, and the delicate tints of neck and arms shone half-veiled by the creamy lace that fell over them. In the golden curls a red rose nestled, and around the throat glistened a necklace of rubies. "Mother!" exclaimed Cecil, "wert thou once as beautiful as that?" Elinor smiled; but it was not quite a happy smile. "Yes, once I was as fair as that, and in those days there were many to care whether I was fair or not. Now there be few either to know or care." "Nay, to me thou art still fair, Mother, and there is another who thinks so too." "Who is that?"