“They all broke prison, poor fellows, as they had need to do, and the Major’s time was nearly up.  He made himself busy in saving and helping the folk in the streets; and his brother, Sir Peregrine, who was thick with the King, and is in foreign parts now, took the chance to speak of the poor lady’s plight and say it would be the death of her if he could not get his discharge, and his Majesty, bless his kind heart, gave the order at once.  So they took madam home to the Chace, but she has been but an ailing body ever since.”

“But the fairy, the fairy, how did she change the babe?” cried Anne.

“Hush, hush, dearie! name them not.  I am coming to it all in good time.  I was telling you how the poor lady failed and pined from that hour, and was like to die.  My gossip Madge told me how when, next Midsummer, this unlucky babe was born they had to take him from her chamber at once because any sound of crying made her start in her sleep, and shriek that she heard a poor child wailing who had been left in a burning house.  Moll Owens, the hind’s wife, a comely lass, was to nurse him, and they had him at once to her in the nursery, where was the elder child, two years old, Master Oliver, as you know well, Mistress Lucy, a fine-grown, sturdy little Turk as ever was.”

“Yes, I know him,” answered Lucy; “and if his brother’s a changeling, he is a bear!  The Whig bear is what Charley calls him.”

“Well, what does that child do but trot out of the nursery, and try to scramble down the stairs.—­Never tell me but that they you wot of trained him out—­not that they had power over a Christian child, but that they might work their will on the little one.  So they must needs trip him up, so that he rolled down the stair hollering and squalling all the way enough to bring the house down, and his poor lady mother, she woke up in a fit.  The womenfolk ran, Molly and all, she being but a slip of a girl herself and giddy-pated, and when they came back after quieting Master Oliver, the babe was changed.”

“Then they didn’t see the—­”

“Hush, hush, missie! no one never sees ’em or they couldn’t do nothing.  They cannot, if a body is looking.  But what had been as likely a child before as you would wish to handle was gone!  The poor little mouth was all of a twist, and his eyelid drooped, and he never ceased mourn, mourn, mourn, wail, wail, wail, day and night, and whatever food he took he never was satisfied, but pined and peaked and dwined from day to day, so as his little legs was like knitting pins.  The lady was nigh upon death as it seemed, so that no one took note of the child at first, but when Madge had time to look at him, she saw how it was, as plain as plain could be, and told his father.  But men are unbelieving, my dears, and always think they know better than them as has the best right, and Major Oakshott would hear of no such thing, only if the boy was like to die, he must be christened.  Well, Madge knew that sometimes they flee at touch of holy water, but no; though the thing mourned and moaned enough to curdle your blood and screeched out when the water touched him, there he was the same puny little canker.  So when madam was better, and began to fret over the child that was nigh upon three months old, and no bigger than a newborn babe, Madge up and told her how it was, and the way to get her own again.”