“Nay, I’ll go home,” said the tanner, turning his face away that they might not see his tears.  “I be a spoil-sport and a mar-feast here.”

“Why, by Jupiter, man!” cried Master Jonson, bringing his fist down upon the board with a thump that made the spoons all clink, “thou art the very merry-maker of the feast.  A full heart’s better than a surfeit any day.  Don’t let him go, Will—­this sort of thing doth make the whole world kin!  Come, Master Attwood, sit thee down, and make thyself at home.  ’Tis not my house, but ’tis my friend’s, and so ’tis all the same in the Lowlands.  Be free of us and welcome.”

“I thank ye, sirs,” said the tanner, slowly, turning to the table with rough dignity.  “Ye ha’ been good to my boy.  I’ll ne’er forget ye while I live.  Oh, sirs, there be kind hearts in the world that I had na dreamed of.  But, masters, I ha’ said my say, and know na more.  Your pleasure wunnot be my pleasure, sirs, for I be only a common man.  I will go home to my wife.  There be things to say before my boy comes home; and I ha’ muckle need to tell her that I love her—­I ha’ na done so these many years.”

“Why, Neighbor Tanner,” cried Master Jonson, with flushing cheeks, “thou art a right good fellow!  And here was I, no later than this morning, red-hot to spit thee upon my bilbo like a Michaelmas goose!” He laughed a boyish laugh that did one’s heart good to hear.

“Ay,” said Master Shakspere, smiling, as he and Simon Attwood looked into each other’s eyes.  “Come, neighbor, I know thou art my man—­so do not go until thou drinkest one good toast with us, for we are all good friends and true from this day forth.  Come, Ben, a toast to fit the cue.”

“Why, then,” replied Master Jonson, in a good round voice, rising in his place, “here’s to all kind hearts!”

“Wherever they may be!” said Master Shakspere, softly.  “It is a good toast, and we will all drink it together.”

And so they did.  And Simon Attwood went away with a warmth and a tingling in his heart he had never known before.

“Margaret,” said he, coming quickly in at the door, as she went silently about the house with a heavy heart preparing the supper, “Margaret.”

She dropped the platter upon the board, and came to him hurriedly, fearing evil tidings.

He took her by the hands.  This, even more than his unusual manner, alarmed her.  “Why, Simon,” she cried, “what is it?  What has come over thee?”

“Nought,” he replied, looking down at her, his hard face quivering; “but I love thee, Margaret.”

“Simon, what dost thou mean?” faltered Mistress Attwood, her heart going down like lead.

“Nought, sweetheart—­but that I love thee, Margaret, and that our lad is coming home!”

Her heart seemed to stop beating.

“Margaret,” said he, huskily, “I do love thee, lass.  Is it too late to tell thee so?”

“Nay, Simon,” answered his wife, simply, “’tis never too late to mend.”  And with that she laughed—­but in the middle of her laughing a tear ran down her cheek.