in the opinions of the time to render their semi-betrothal ridiculous.  At the Manor house itself, Gilbert Talbot and Mary Cavendish had been married when no older than he was; half their contemporaries were already plighted, and the only difference was that in the present harassing state of surveillance in which every one lived, the parents thought that to avow the secret so long kept might bring about inquiry and suspicion, and they therefore wished it to be guarded till the marriage could be contracted.  As Cis developed, she had looks and tones which so curiously harmonised, now with the Scotch, now with the French element in the royal captive’s suite, and which made Captain Richard believe that she must belong to some of the families who seemed amphibious between the two courts; and her identification as a Seaton, a Flemyng, a Beatoun, or as a member of any of the families attached to the losing cause, would only involve her in exile and disgrace.  Besides, there was every reason to think her an orphan, and a distant kinsman was scarcely likely to give her such a home as she had at Bridgefield, where she had always been looked on as a daughter, and was now regarded as doubly their own in right of their son.  So Humfrey was permitted to consider her as peculiarly his own, and he exerted this right of property by a certain jealousy of Antony Babington which amused his parents, and teased the young lady.  Nor was he wholly actuated by the jealousy of proprietorship, for he knew the devotion with which Antony regarded Queen Mary, and did not wholly trust him.  His sense of honour and duty to his father’s trust was one thing, Antony’s knight-errantry to the beautiful captive was another; each boy thought himself strictly honourable, while they moved in parallel lines and could not understand one another; yet, with the reserve of childhood, all that passed between them was a secret, till one afternoon when loud angry sounds and suppressed sobs attracted Mistress Susan to the garden, where she found Cis crying bitterly, and little Diccon staring eagerly, while a pitched battle was going on between her eldest son and young Antony Babington, who were pommelling each other too furiously to perceive her approach.

“Boys! boys! fie for shame,” she cried, with a hand on the shoulder of each, and they stood apart at her touch, though still fiercely looking at one another.

“See what spectacles you have made of yourselves!” she continued.  “Is this your treatment of your guest, Humfrey?  How is my Lord’s page to show himself at Chatsworth to-morrow with such an eye?  What is it all about?”

Both combatants eyed each other in sullen silence.

“Tell me, Cis.  Tell me, Diccon.  I will know, or you shall have the rod as well as Humfrey.”

Diccon, who was still in the era of timidity, instead of secretiveness, spoke out.  “He,” indicating his brother, “wanted the packet.”

“What packet?” exclaimed the mother, alarmed.