“He shall see me when it suiteth me,” said Mr. Headley coolly. “He wotteth well that Hillyer hath none who can burnish plate armour like Tibble here.” “Moreover the last iron we had from that knave Mepham is nought. It works short under the hammer.” “That shall be seen to, Kit. The rest of the budget to-morrow. I must on to my mother.” For at the doorway, at the head of the stairs, there stood the still trim and active figure of an old woman, with something of the mouse likeness seen in her grand-daughter, in the close cap, high hat, and cloth dress, that sumptuary opinion, if not law, prescribed for the burgher matron, a white apron, silver chain and bunch of keys at her girdle. Due and loving greetings passed between mother and son, after the longest and most perilous absence of Master Headley’s life, and he then presented Giles, to whom the kindly dame offered hand and cheek, saying, “Welcome, my young kinsman, your good father was well known and liked here. May you tread in his steps!” “Thanks, good mistress,” returned Giles. “I am thought to have a pretty taste in the fancy part of the trade. My Lord of Montagu—” Before he could get any farther, Mistress Headley was inquiring what was the rumour she had heard of robbers and dangers that had beset her son, and he was presenting the two young Birkenholts to her. “Brave boys! good boys,” she said, holding out her hands and kissing each according to the custom of welcome, “you have saved my son for me, and this little one’s father for her. Kiss them, Dennet, and thank them.” “It was the poor dog,” said the child, in a clear little voice, drawing back with a certain quaint coquetting shyness; “I would rather kiss him.” “Would that thou couldst, little mistress,” said Stephen. “My poor brave Spring!” “Was he thine own? Tell me all about him,” said Dennet, somewhat imperiously. She stood between the two strangers looking eagerly up with sorrowfully interested eyes, while Stephen, out of his full heart, told of his faithful comradeship with his hound from the infancy of both. Her father meanwhile was exchanging serious converse with her grandmother, and Giles finding himself left in the background, began: “Come hither, pretty coz, and I will tell thee of my Lady of Salisbury’s dainty little hounds.” “I care not for dainty little hounds,” returned Dennet; “I want to hear of the poor faithful dog that flew at the wicked robber.” “A mighty stir about a mere chance,” muttered Giles. “I know what _you_ did,” said Dennet, turning her bright brown eyes full upon him. “You took to your heels.” Her look and little nod were so irresistibly comical that the two brothers could not help laughing; whereupon Giles Headley turned upon them in a passion. “What mean ye by this insolence, you beggars’ brats picked up on the heath?” “Better born than thou, braggart and coward that thou art!” broke forth Stephen, while Master Headley exclaimed, “How now, lads? No brawling here!”