Note 4. A private sitting-room for ladies. CHAPTER FOUR. THE WHITE LADY. "The future is all dark, And the past a troubled sea, And Memory sits in the heart, Wailing where Hope should be." Supper was ready in the hall at four o'clock, and Amphillis found herself seated next below Agatha, the younger of Lady Foljambe's damsels. It was a feast-day, so that meat was served--a boar's head, stewed beef, minced mutton, squirrel, and hedgehog. The last dainty is now restricted to gypsies, and no one eats our little russet friend of the bushy tail; but our forefathers indulged in both. There were also roast capons, a heron, and chickens dressed in various ways. Near Amphillis stood a dish of beef jelly, a chowet or liver-pie, a flampoynt or pork-pie, and a dish of sops in fennel. The sweets were Barlee and Mon Amy, of which the first was rice cream, and the second a preparation of curds and cream. Amphillis looked with considerable interest along the table, and at her opposite neighbours. Lady Foljambe she recognised at once; and beside her sat a younger lady whom she had not seen before. She applied to her neighbour for information. "She?" said Agatha. "Oh, she's Mistress Margaret, my Lady's daughter-in-law; wife to Master Godfrey, that sits o' t' other side of his mother; and that's Master Matthew, o' this side. The priest's Father Jordan--a fat old noodle as ever droned a psalm through his nose. Love you mirth and jollity?" "I scarce know," said Amphillis, hesitatingly. "I have had so little." Agatha's face was a sight to see. "Good lack, but I never reckoned you should be a spoil-sport!" said she, licking her spoon as in duty bound before she plunged it in the jelly--a piece of etiquette in which young ladies at that date were carefully instructed. The idea of setting a separate spoon to help a dish had not dawned upon the mediaeval mind. "I shall hate you, I can tell you, if you so are. Things here be like going to a funeral all day long--never a bit of music nor dancing, nor aught that is jolly. Mistress Margaret might be eighty, so sad and sober is she; and as for my Lady and Mistress Perrote, they are just a pair of old jog-trots fit to run together in a quirle [the open car then used by ladies, something like a waggonette]. Master Godfrey's all for arms and fighting, so he's no better. Master Matthew's best of the lot, but bad's the best when you've a-done. And he hasn't much chance neither, for if he's seen laughing a bit with one of us, my Lady's a-down on him as if he'd broke all the Ten Commandments, and whisks him off ere you can say Jack Robinson; and if she whip you not, you may thank the saints or your stars, which you have a mind. Oh, 'tis a jolly house you've come to, that I can tell you! I hoped you'd a bit more fun in you than Clarice--she wasn't a scrap of good. But I'm afraid you're no better."