"I hoped you had done with those for ever, father," said Ruth gravely; "'twas a serious concern, indeed, when poor King Charles was killed, and you--" "I! how now?" cried Rumbold, turning sharply upon her. "What had I to do with that?" "What had you not, father?" said Ruth, in tones of sturdy reproach. "Why, many's the time Maudlin has told me how you stood by and saw it done." [Sidenote: A bitter-sweet story.] "And beshrew her chattering old tongue for her pains! I'd have had it cut out, had I caught her at her tales. 'Tis no fit one for your ears, Ruth," he added, in sad slow tones. "Indeed, father; I could always stop them with my fingers when she begins about it; and yet still I must listen. 'Tis such a bitter-sweet story--poor king!" "And yet," went on Rumbold, changing his mood, "after all, why should I be sorry to think that you know your father can look his duty in the face." "Oh, father!" she began reproachfully. "Let be, child," he interrupted, turning away, and thrusting his hands gloomily down into his pockets, "'Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do,' saith the Scripture, 'do it with all thy might.' 'Tis enough." "Indeed, indeed enough," said Ruth, stealing beside him, "and you will meddle no more in such things, eh, father?" "And who told you I dreamed of doing so?" he demanded in unsteady and excited tones. "You must rest and be comfortable," went on Ruth, twining her arms about his neck, and stroking his rugged face; "so snug here, isn't it, in our beautiful old Rye House? And you must be content to rest now, and have your little Ruth take care of you, and sing--for you say I have a tuneful voice, eh, dear--of the Land 'where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest,' and the gentle green pastures, and the godly hymns you taught me when I was a small thing you could dandle on your knee. Promise me, dear heart," she went on coaxingly, when Rumbold's only answer was an attempt to shake her off, "never to meddle more. Let the bad cruel-hearted men make their plots, for 'tis all their wits can reach to, I doubt. But for one like you, who can make such malt as is not to be found besides in all Hertfordshire, oh, I'd stick to it." [Sidenote: Rumbold's changes of mood.] "And stick you to your churn and your wheel, Mistress Oracle," said the maltster, fondly stroking her soft brown hair, "and discourse not so glibly of what you do not understand a whit more than your own frisky Tab there, who is tearing up your fine chap-books with her claws. What should kings, and such kittle cattle's doings be to you?" [Sidenote: Words about majesty.] "Nay, little enough," said Ruth, turning to rescue her precious books, and taking the destructive Tab in her arms, "though in truth sometimes I think I should like to see our King Charles," she went on, dreamily twiddling the kitten's ears. "Have you not seen him many a time, silly child?" said Rumbold.