"There would still be the Forest! And I saw the moorhen sitting yester eve! And the wild ducklings are out on the pool, and the woods are full of song. Oh! Ambrose! I never knew how hard it is to part--" "Nay, now, Steve, where be all your plots for bravery? You always meant to seek your fortune--not bide here like an acorn for ever." "I never thought to be thrust forth the very day of our poor father's burial, by a shrewish town-bred vixen, and a base narrow-souled--" "Hist! hist!" said the more prudent Ambrose. "Let him hear who will! He cannot do worse for us than he has done! All the Forest will cry shame on him for a mean-hearted skinflint to turn his brothers from their home, ere their father and his, be cold in his grave," cried Stephen, clenching the grass with his hands, in his passionate sense of wrong. "That's womanish," said Ambrose. "Who'll be the woman when the time comes for drawing cold steel?" cried Stephen, sitting up. At that moment there came through the porch a man, a few years over thirty, likewise in mourning, with a paler, sharper countenance than the brothers, and an uncomfortable pleading expression of self- justification. "How now, lads!" he said, "what means this? You have taken the matter too hastily. There was no thought that ye should part till you had some purpose in view. Nay, we should be fain for Ambrose to bide on here, so he would leave his portion for me to deal with, and teach little Will his primer and accidence. You are a quiet lad, Ambrose, and can rule your tongue better than Stephen." "Thanks, brother John," said Ambrose, somewhat sarcastically, "but where Stephen goes I go." "I would--I would have found Stephen a place among the prickers or rangers, if--" hesitated John. "In sooth, I would yet do it, if he would make it up with the housewife." "My father looked higher for his son than a pricker's office," returned Ambrose. "That do I wot," said John, "and therefore, 'tis for his own good that I would send him forth. His godfather, our uncle Birkenholt, he will assuredly provide for him, and set him forth--" The door of the house was opened, and a shrewish voice cried, "Mr Birkenholt--here, husband! You are wanted. Here's little Kate crying to have yonder smooth pouch to stroke, and I cannot reach it for her." "Father set store by that otter-skin pouch, for poor Prince Arthur slew the otter," cried Stephen. "Surely, John, you'll not let the babes make a toy of that?" John made a helpless gesture, and at a renewed call, went indoors. "You are right, Ambrose," said Stephen, "this is no place for us. Why should we tarry any longer to see everything moiled and set at nought? I have couched in the forest before, and 'tis summer time."