It ceased, and yet a gentle murmur seemed to steal through the moldy walls, of birds and flowers, sunlight, and the open air, of once-loved mothers, and of long-forgotten homes. The renegade had ceased his cursing, and was whispering a fragment of a Spanish prayer he had not heard for many a day.

Carew muttered to himself. "And now old cares are locked in charméd sleep, and new griefs lose their bitterness, to hear thee sing-to hear thee sing. God bless thee, Nick!"

""T is three good shillings' worth o' time," the turnkey growled, and fumbled with the keys. "All for one shilling, too," said he, and kicked the doorpost sulkily. "But a plague, I say; a plague! 'T is no one's business but mine. I've a good two shillings' worth in my ears. "T is thirty year since I ha' heard the like o' that. But what's a gaol for?-man's delight? Nay, nay. Here, boy, time's up! Come out o' that." But he spoke so low that he scarcely heard himself; and going to the end of the corridor, he marked upon the wall.

"Oh, Nick, I love thee," said the master-player, holding the boy's hands with a bitter grip. "Dost thou not love me just a little? Come, lad, say that thou lovest me."

The master-player loosed his grasp. "I will not seek to be excused to thee," he said, huskily. "I've prisoned thee as that clod prisons. me; but, Nick, the play is almost out, down comes the curtain on my heels, and thy just blame will find no mark. Yet, Nick, now that I am fast and thou art free, it makes my heart ache to feel that 't was not I who

"Nay, Master Carew," Nick answered soberly, "I do na love thee, and I will na say I do, sir; but I pity thee with all my heart. And, sir, if thy being out would keep me stolen, still I think I'd wish thee out- for Cicely. But, Master Carew, do na break my hands."

VOL. XXIV.- 103.

set thee free. Thou canst go when pleaseth thee, and thank me nothing for it. And, Nick, as my sins be forgiven me, I truly meant to set thee free, and send thee home. I did, upon my word and on the remnant of mine honour!"

Carew thrust his hand into his breast. "I must be going, sir," said Nick.

"Ay, so thou must. all things must go. Oh, Nick, be friendly with me now, if thou wert never friend before. Kiss me, lad. There - now thy hand." The master-player clasped it closely in his own, and pressing something into the palm, shut down the fingers over it. "Quick! Keep it hid," he whispered. ""T is the chain I had from Stratford's burgesses, to some good usage come at last."

"Must I come and fetch thee out?" growled the turnkey.

"I be coming, sir."

"Thou 'lt send Will Shakspere? And, oh, Nick," cried Carew, holding him yet a little longer, "thou 'lt keep my Cicely from harm?" "I'll do my best," said Nick, his own eyes full. The turnkey raised his heavy bunch of keys. "I'll ding thee out o' this," said he.

And the last Nick Attwood saw of Gaston Carew was his wistful eyes hunting down the stairway after him, and his hand, with its torn fine laces, waving at him through the bars.

And when he came to the Mermaid Inn Master Shakspere's comedy was done, and Master Ben Jonson was telling a merry tale that made the tapster sick with laughing.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

CICELY DISAPPEARS.

WHEN Master Shakspere's house was still, and all had said good-by, Nick doffed his clothes and laid him down to sleep in peace. Yet he often wakened in the night, because his heart was dancing so.

In the morning, when the world began to stir outside, and the early light came in at the window, he slipped out of bed across the floor, and threw the casement wide. Over the river, and over the town, and over the hills that lay blue in the north, was Stratford !

The damp, cool air from the garden below seemed a primrose whiff from the lane behind his father's house. He could hear the cocks crowing in Surrey, and the lowing of the kine. There was a robin singing in a bush under the

with a pair of pruning-shears. Snip-snip! snipsnip! he heard them going. The light in the east was pink as a peach-bloom and too intense to bear.

"Good-morrow, Master Early-bird!" a merry voice called up to him, and a nosegay dropped on the window-ledge at his side. He looked down. There in the path among the rose-trees was Master Will Shakspere, laughing. He had on an ancient leathern jacket and a hat with a hole in its crown; and the skirts of the jacket were dripping with dew from the bushes.

"Good-morrow, sir," said Nick, and bowed. "It is a lovely day."

"Most beautiful indeed! How comes the sun?"

"Just up, sir; the river is afire with it now. O-oh!" Nick held his breath, and watched the light creep down the wall, darting long bars of rosy gold through the snowy bloom of the apple-trees, until it rested upon Master Shakspere's face, and made a fleeting glory there.

Then Master Shakspere stretched himself a little in the sun, laughing softly, and said, "It is the sweetest music in the world-morning, spring, and God's dear sunshine; it starteth kindness brewing in the heart, like sap in a withered bud. What sayest, lad? We'll fetch the little maid today; and then away for Stratford town!"

But when Master Shakspere and Nicholas Attwood came to Gaston Carew's house, the constables had taken charge, the servants were scattering hither and thither, and Cicely Carew was gone.

The bandy-legged man, the butler said, had come on Sunday in great haste, and packing up his goods, without a word of what had befallen his master, had gone away, no one knew whither, and had taken Cicely with him. Nor had any of them dared to question what he did, for indeed they all feared the rogue, and judged him to have authority.

Nick caught a moment at the lintel of the door. The house was full of voices, and the sound of trampling feet went up and down from room to room; but all Nick heard was Gaston Carew's worn voice, saying, "Thou 'lt keep my Cicely from harm?"