“Ay, dead enough, good luck to her!” rejoined the first speaker. “They do say Sir Thomas wagered her at dice the very night on which his daughter was born, and lost his bet, too; but his opponent levied not the debt, and the poor lady, dying not many years thereafter, perchance never knew it. Howbeit, it is certain that had she known it, she could not have hated him more heartily than she did.” “That’s true enough, my masters,” said an ancient crone. “I knew her woman, and a sorry death the poor thing made. Even at that hour her husband was as tipsy as he was but now, and came into her chamber blubbering, as a sot will sometimes, and with great oaths, that he would guard her child. My lady heeded not his voice, but cried out to her tirewoman that the end was near, and she thanked the dear God for it, and to let her go in peace! She looked but once at her little daughter and then fell to weeping and blessing her, saying that the queen would care for this lamb, and so turned her white face to the wall and died.” “The queen,--did she commend her baby to the queen?” they all exclaimed. “Ay, ay,” the old woman answered, “to the queen’s grace; there was but one queen then, but now there is the old queen and Queen Nan Bullen, and God wot how many queens there be!” “Hold thy tongue, mistress!” cried one; “thou wilt be up by the Treason Act, and hang at Tyburn, if thou hast so foul a tongue!” “Belike I shall, and all of ye,” the old creature laughed shrilly; “but it would not profit much to twist my shrivelled neck, there be fairer ones that would furnish a better entertainment.” “Where is Carew’s child?” cried one whose thirst for knowledge was not yet slaked. “Hidden somewhere in that old nest of his,” returned one of the gossips; “a sad life she’s had of it and is like to be in a worse case yet. Sir Thomas never did her a good turn until this day; the worst he did was to father her. An ill-favored wench, too, when last I saw her, thin and yellow and with a cold way that made no friends.” “Then ye have not seen her lately,” the old woman said with a chuckle; “she has shot up like a young sapling, and has eyes like two stars, and a smile that will turn many a young fool’s head, albeit her purse is empty and her kirtle patched.” “Poor wench, poor Mistress Betty, my heart doth ache for her,” a kinder woman said, shaking her head. Strangely enough, at that same moment Mistress Betty Carew was spoken of within the house by Sir William and his wife. He turned from his brother’s corpse, a certain stern relenting in his face, and said to Lady Carew, “There is the child.” “Ay, we must have her here, William,” his wife replied at once; “you may not leave your own blood in so poor a strait as he is like to have left the maid.” Sir William mused. “How old is she?” he asked. “Seventeen, come Michaelmas,” Lady Carew replied, watchful of her husband’s face, her own heart full of compassion for the orphan.