As I read aloud, Constance was ushered in. She did not know Sir Thomas's register and begged me to go on reading, so I continued to read. The old papers, I told her in a pause, embraced eight years of Henry VIII.'s reign, went through that of Edward VI.'s, took in the whole of Queen Mary's, and gave the four opening years of Queen Elizabeth's reign. All Sir Thomas's sympathies were with the old order of things, I begged her to remember, and then I went on reading. "'In February, 1546, on the 5th day of the month, word and knowledge came to the borough of Much Wenlock that our Sovereign Lord King Henry VIII. was departed out of this transitory life, whose soul,'" Sir Thomas added, "'God Almighty pardon.'" "Sir Thomas Botelar," I told Constance, "was the last Abbot of St. Peter and St. Paul's Monastery at Shrewsbury. After the Dissolution, the King turned away all the monks, and Sir Thomas became, after a short time, Vicar of Much Wenlock, but his heart remained in the cloisters of his former abbey." Then I turned to a notice a little further down the page-- "'On the 13th April of the same year three convicts were buried, and one was a child of eleven.' Poor little girl," I said, "what a terrible bald statement of misery! What could so young a child have done to merit death?" "I cannot think," exclaimed Bess. "Perhaps cursed and swore and scratched; but, even then, had she no father or mother to forgive her?" "Only God," said Constance, softly. And then I begged them to listen to an account of a funeral of an excellent priest, and obviously a very learned man. [Sidenote: THE OLD CHURCH REGISTERS] "'Sir William Corvehill, priest,'" I read, "'was laid in a tomb of lime and stone, which he had caused to be made for himself. Sir W. Corvehill was excellently and singularly expert in divers of the VIJ liberal sciences, especially in geometry. He was also skilled in the making of organs and in the carving of masonry, in the weaving of silk, and in printing. Besides he was,'" adds Sir Thomas, "'a very patient man and full honest in his conversation and living.'" Then, after commending his soul to the care of God, Sir Thomas wound up quaintly by declaring that, "'All this country hath a great loss from the death of Sir William Corvehill, for he was a good bell-founder and a maker and framer of bells.'" Then I found a notice of a marriage. "'Here was married,'" ran the old register, "'Thomas Munslow Smith and Alice Nycols;'" and added, "'The bride was wedded in her smock, and barehead.'" "When I'm married," said Bess, loftily, "I'll have a veil and some flowers. Nana says it isn't proper to be married without a veil. 'Twould be as silly as papa ploughing, or you, mama, plucking fowls." I didn't enter into the question of parental ridicule, but I looked down the vicar's entries and read, "'Poor Sir John Baily Clerke, otherwise called John Cressage, died. It was about 9 of the clock,'" wrote Sir Thomas, "'and at the manor place of Madeley.'"