"Get out of the way, childer!" said Mariot one night, not crossly, but like the tired girl she was, as she came and threw herself down on the sheepskin among them at the door. "I am weary as a dog. There never is any pleasure in life—our lives, anywise. Simon, have done!—and Emmot, give o’er pushing. Let a body have a bit of rest, do!" And rolling one corner of the sheepskin into a bolster, Mariot made herself comfortable—as much so, that is, as the circumstances admitted. "Mariot, what is a villein?" "What’s _what_?" exclaimed Mariot, her head coming up in astonishment. "Lo’ you now, if Slow-o’-Words hasn’t found his tongue!" "What’s a villein, Mariot?" "What we all are—saving thee, little plague o’ my life." "Why amn’t I like you?" said Lawrence, opening his eyes wide. "The deer knows!" replied Simon grumpily. "Well, but I know beside the deer," said Mariot. "Well, what for but by reason thou wert born on the same day as the young Lord up yonder,—thou and Blumond’s Beattie—and ye were both made free therefor." "What’s _free_, Mariot?" "It means, do what you will." "Does it so? May I have one of those fishes, then?" "Oh, well—it means not, do ill and thieve. Wait a bit, Lolly, till thou art grown bigger, and thou wilt know what free means—better than ever we are like to know it." "Why isn’t everybody free, Mariot?" "What wot I? They aren’t." "Is Beattie free too?" "Ay." "But we were _made_ free. Is nobody free that isn’t made?" "Lots of folks." "Then why isn’t everybody?" repeated little Lawrence meditatively. "Oh, give o’er, and reive not my head!" cried Mariot. "Loll, if thou goest about to ask questions that none can answer, I shall want thee dumb again I promise thee." "Can’t nobody answer them? Couldn’t the parson?" "The parson, in good sooth! The like of thee to ask questions at the parson! Shut thine eyes, and go to sleep: I’m as sleepy as a squirrel in winter." Lawrence crept on his hands and knees to the edge of the sheepskin, avoiding his brother Simon, who lay on his face in the middle of it, amusing himself by kicks up at the atmosphere: and looking out into the still summer evening, saw Blumond’s wife Philippa carrying in the baskets of fish, and little Beatrice trotting beside her. Prettiest of the three children was Beatrice, with dainty little ways which woke Lawrence’s admiration, and made her a perpetual attraction to him. In fact, he hardly knew which he liked best, Beatrice or the fishes!