Match-making began at so early an age, that when Mistress Susan had twice found her and Antony Babington with their heads together over the lamentable ballad of the cold fish that had been a lady, and which sang its own history “forty thousand fathom above water,” she began to question whether the girl were the attraction.  He was now an orphan, and his wardship and marriage had been granted to the Earl, who, having disposed of all his daughters and stepdaughters, except Bessie Cavendish, might very fairly bestow on the daughter of his kinsman so good a match as the young squire of Dethick.

“Then should we have to consider of her parentage,” said Richard, when his wife had propounded her views.

“I never can bear in mind that the dear wench is none of ours,” said Susan.  “Thou didst say thou wouldst portion her as if she were our own little maid, and I have nine webs ready for her household linen.  Must we speak of her as a stranger?”

“It would scarce be just towards another family to let them deem her of true Talbot blood, if she were to enter among them,” said Richard; “though I look on the little merry maid as if she were mine own child.  But there is no need yet to begin upon any such coil; and, indeed, I would wager that my lady hath other views for young Babington.”

After all, parents often know very little of what passes in children’s minds, and Cis never hinted to her mother that the bond of union between her and Antony was devotion to the captive Queen.  Cis had only had a glimpse or two of her, riding by when hunting or hawking, or when, on festive occasions, all who were privileged to enter the park were mustered together, among whom the Talbots ranked high as kindred to both Earl and Countess; but those glimpses had been enough to fill the young heart with romance, such as the matter-of-fact elders never guessed at.  Antony Babington, who was often actually in the gracious presence, and received occasional smiles, and even greetings, was immeasurably devoted to the Queen, and maintained Cicely’s admiration by his vivid descriptions of the kindness, the grace, the charms of the royal captive, in contrast with the innate vulgarity of their own Countess.

Willie Douglas (the real Roland Graeme of the escape from Lochleven) had long ago been dismissed from Mary’s train, with all the other servants who were deemed superfluous; but Antony had heard the details of the story from Jean Kennedy (Mrs. Kennett, as the English were pleased to call her), and Willie was the hero of his emulative imagination.

“What would I not do to be like him!” he fervently exclaimed when he had narrated the story to Humfrey and Cis, as they lay on a nest in the fern one fine autumn day, resting after an expedition to gather blackberries for the mother’s preserving.

“I would not be him for anything,” said Humfrey.

“Fie, Humfrey,” cried Cis; “would not you dare exile or anything else in a good cause?”