It was the day after her uncle’s arrival that she sat alone in a little turret chamber which looked out over the river, and here Sir William found her. A glance at his face told her that his visit had some unusual import, and she was troubled, half divining the truth. Carew came in and sat down on a high oaken settle beside her and was a moment silent, as if in thought. “There is some trouble, uncle?” Mistress Betty said, a quiver of excitement in her voice, and her dark eyes on his face. “Yea, wench,” he said, “a trouble I had not looked for; albeit I might have known Thomas well enough for that.” “You mean my father?” she said in a low tone; “then it doth concern me.” “It doth concern thee, truly,” retorted Carew, gravely; “nor do I see the end on it. Did I not love thee, wench, it would not so disturb me.” “I pray thee, uncle, tell me all,” Betty exclaimed, the trouble deepening on her face. “There is but little to tell, my girl,” he answered, with a glance at her in which admiration and pity were mingled. “I find you are troth plight to Sir Barton Henge.” Betty sprang from her seat, her face aflame. “’Tis a lie of his!” she cried, “a miserable and cowardly lie!” Sir William shook his head. “Nay, fair niece,” he said, “it is no lie. I saw the papers; duly signed they are, too. ’Twas done when thy father had wealth and estate; and there it stands, and would have stood, I take it, had it not been for thy face.” “It does not matter, sir,” Betty cried, “I will none of him. From the moment that I saw him in the inn, I dreaded him, and there is something in his face I cannot endure.” “Belike there is, Betty,” Carew returned gravely; “yet Henge is handsome, and esteemed a brave man, albeit I never liked him, nor he me. He drinks hard and lives better than his purse allows; yet I do think that many women would believe themselves happy and he chose them. He loves thee, wench, madly too, I think, as such men do sometimes; and it is sure that he will never quit his claim, but cry ‘precontract’ if you dream of wedding elsewhere.” Sir William’s tone was matter of fact and calm, impressing his niece with a painful sense of helplessness. To him this seemed doubtless no uncommon affair, and a young girl’s preference was of small consequence. Mistress Betty stood looking at him with horror growing in her eyes. “Alas!” she said sadly, “that evil wizard told me I should wed a man scarred as Henge is, on the brow.” At this Carew pricked up his ears. “What say you, niece?” he asked; “a wizard? To what wizard did you go?” “To none,” she answered; “but one came to Kimbolton,--a little, bow-legged man, with a russet cloak.” “Ah, Sanders,” said her uncle; “and he was at Kimbolton? A sure sign that some scheme was hatching. ’Tis well that the poor lady died.” Betty told him briefly the story of the packet, and he nodded his head thoughtfully.