Cuthbert said nothing; but having a recollection of the passage from which Sir Oliver had quoted, thought he might have found a more comfortable sanction and a much better authority. “But, prithee,” continued Sir Oliver, “whose rhymes be these that the child has just spoken?” “They are my poor doggerel,” answered Cuthbert; “for this dear child would give me no rest till I made a part for her in the Birthday Masque.” “Marry,” rejoined the knight, “the fancy of them pleaseth me, and for the verse I care not.” They all now turned to ascend the steps; and as they did so, apparent at the same instant to both Sir Oliver and Cuthbert was Mistress Katharine, leaning over the balustrade of the upper terrace, with an air of grave and perplexed curiosity. As soon as they reached the top, which was level with the lawn in front of the mansion, Katharine caught Kitten in her arms, kissed her fair brow, and ran with her towards the house; the happy child calling out the while, “Come along, Master Noble, pray, come,” and at the same time clapping together her two little hands at thought of the coming pleasure. CHAP. II. “White, I dare not say good, witches (for woe be to him that calleth evil good!) heal those that are hurt, and help them to lost goods. “Methinks she should bewitch to herself a golden mine, at least good meat, and whole clothes.” FULLER’_s_ _Profane State_. While a select few among the maidens and the serving men, who were, to their great contentment, to figure beneath strange dresses and uncouth vizards in the antimasque, and while some neighbouring gentles of quality, who were to take part in the masque itself, were rehearsing in the hall, old Philip, the butler, betook himself to the outer gate, and there sitting down on the porter’s stone, replenished his pipe, and fell a-thinking about Sir Oliver and Master Noble. But the more he thought, the more he was puzzled; and so he opened his vest to catch the breeze from the valley, and smoked with half-closed eyes, too much accustomed to the glorious scene before him to be always moved by its beauties. Below him, in the rich bottom of the vale, flowed the shining Avon. The white foam of the water at Guy’s mill might be seen, and the rush of it might be almost heard.