Betty Carew looked up in amazement and saw an old woman standing by her uncle; a woman, but one with so manly an air that the young girl was not a little amused. Lady Crabtree was tall and broad-shouldered, with a large waist and a flat chest, being one of those women whose figures are flattened out, with a great width from side to side. She had a masculine face with a large, hooked nose and keen black eyes; the face of a woman who had inherited not only her father’s traits of character, but his full set of features, even to the strong, broad teeth. Her snow-white hair was put back under a large and ugly headdress, and her garments, though rich, were neither stylish nor elegant; and though an old woman, it was apparent that she would have been more at ease in doublet and hose than in a farthingale. She was regarding Betty with a shrewd but not unkindly glance, which seemed to comprehend not only the girl’s great beauty, but also her present frame of mind. “What is thy name, child?” this singular person asked; “Carew, I know, forsooth, but it must have a handle to it.” “My name is Betty Carew,” the young girl answered, smiling, “and I trust I may not make my uncle sorry for bringing me to Greenwich.” “If you do not, Mistress Betty, it will not be the fault of your face,” retorted Lady Crabtree, calmly. “What say you, Mistress Wyatt, is not my cousin Carew a fool to bring such wares to such a market?” At this, Betty’s face flushed crimson, and she raised her head haughtily, but before she could speak, a richly gowned gentlewoman, who stood beside her new acquaintance, replied. “Nay, Lady Crabtree,” she said, smiling, “Sir William has shown his usual discretion and kindness to bring his niece to see the world, and I am sure that so discreet a maid will take no harm from the contact.” “You are a liar, Wyatt,” the old woman retorted, laughing; “that is why I love you. To know how to lie gracefully, and at the right moment, is one of the most charming accomplishments and one of the rarest, albeit lying is more frequent than dying. There is the substance of a couplet for one of the court singers; I was born a poet, but am like to die unknown for such. Well, William,” she added, turning again to Carew, “this wench is to be my charge, then?” “Ay, if you will have her, madam,” he answered; “for a while, at least. They want her at court, and I can scarcely make her a charge of any one more fit to guard her than my Lady Crabtree.” “I am a dragon then, William,” the old woman said, with her queer smile, which was not mirthful; “so be it. I will take care that no wolf shall chew up this lamb. She shall have good watching, though I think the wench is no fool.” “Madam,” said Betty, coldly, “I come here only at my uncle’s will; I would rather, and it pleased him, stay at Mohun’s Ottery.”