The better feelings of Sir Oliver were touched: the expression of his eye showed plainly that he was repenting of his hastiness, relenting in his decision. What his reply might have been, may, in its spirit, be easily imagined; but a sudden interruption checked the words that were rising to his lips; and a sounder and more prudential reason for desiring the departure of Cuthbert was presented to his judgment than any objection which could have been urged at that time, with any semblance of fairness, against his errors as a churchman, or his sins as a subject. “Master Noble,” called a rich clear voice from above them,--“Master Noble, we poor players do wait your pleasure, and are ready with our parts; but we cannot go on with our rehearsal till the manager doth come to us.” Looking up, Sir Oliver saw his daughter leaning over the balustrade, with a paper in one hand, and a tall wand wreathed with flowers in the other; and, as he turned his eyes upon Cuthbert Noble, the strong emotions with which Cuthbert was evidently struggling did not escape his observation. “I have business with him just now, Kate,” said her father: “go thy way. He shall come to thee in the hall anon.” But as he spoke, the boy Arthur came down the steps, leading in his hand the little girl; and, running up to Cuthbert with joyous eagerness, cried out, “Kitten can do her part--she can say every word quite perfect--you must hear her.” With that, the little girl letting go his hand, and putting back her sunny curls, which had fallen over her blue eyes, repeated, with an air of sweet intelligence and pretty innocence, these lines:-- “I do childhood represent, Listen to my argument: Mine the magic power to bring Pleasure out of every thing; Sunbeams, flowers, and summer air, Music, wonders, visions fair, All my happy steps attend; Mine is peace without an end;-- All things are at peace with me, Beast in field, and bird on tree; The sheep that lie upon the grass Never stir as I do pass; If by the singing bird I stray, He never quits his chosen spray; If to the squirrel’s haunt I go, He comes with curious eye below; Earth and I are full of love, I fear no harm from Heav’n above, For there, as here, all things do tell A Father God doth surely dwell:-- O! could I be a child alway, How happy were life’s holyday!” The countenance of Sir Oliver recovered all its wonted expression of good humour, as the child prettily recited these lines; and patting her on the head, as she concluded, he turned to Cuthbert and said, in his usual kind tone, “We will talk our matter over another time: I see that you are no joy-killer, and would never mar an innocent pleasure-making--I was ever fond of a good play--a pox on these prick-eared knaves that would forbid them! “‘Why kings and emperors have taen delight To make experience of their wits in plays,’ as Master Kyd hath it, in his Spanish tragedy.”