"I fear not. They would have told me at once. I haven’t seen much of them. There were lots of things undone, and badly done, to look after. The wenches and the men have been on the streets all day, and the kitchen is upside down. You never saw the like. I am tired of this Cromwell business, I am that. Phoebe was abusing him roundly as she jugged the hare for supper, and I felt kindly to her for it. ’You are a pack of time-serving turncoats,’ she was saying as I went into the kitchen; ’you would drink as much ale to-morrow to King Charles as you have drunk to-day to old Noll Cromwell.’ And as she was stirring the pot, she did not know I was there, until I answered, ’You speak God’s truth, Phoebe!’ Then she turned and said, ’I do, ma’am. And for that matter, they would drink to the devil, an he asked them with old October!’ Then I stopped her saucy tongue. But I don’t wonder at her temper—not a clean saucepan in the closets, and men and maids off their heads with ale and Cromwell together." "If Doctor Verity gives you any opportunity will you speak about Cluny, mother?" "You know I will. He and others will, maybe, have time for a word of kindness now. I’m sure the last few weeks have been past bearing—a nice mess the saints made of everything—London out of its seven senses, and the whole country screaming behind it; and the men who had a little sense, not knowing which road to turn. Now Cromwell has got his way, there will be only Cromwell to please, and surely a whole city full can manage that." "I don’t suppose he has ever thought of Cluny being so long over time." "Not he! He has had things far closer to him to look after." "But now?" "Now he will inquire after the lad. Doctor Verity must speak to him. Dear Jane, do you suppose I don’t see how you are suffering? I do, my girl, and I suffer with you. But even your father thinks we are worrying ourselves for nothing. He says Cluny will walk in some day and tell his own story—nothing worse than a fit of ague or fever, or even a wound from some street pad; perhaps a heavy snowstorm, or the swampy Netherlands under water. Men can’t fight the elements, or even outwit them, dear. Mother is with you, Jane, don’t you doubt that," and she stepped forward and clasped the girl to her breast, and kissed the tears off her cheeks. "Now drink your possett and go to sleep; something may happen while you are dreaming of it; the net of the sleeping fisherman takes just as well—better maybe—than if he kept awake to watch it."