“Thou shouldst bring him one of these days,” said Sir Thomas. “But thou hast instead brought in a fair maid. See, Meg, yonder is the poor young girl who lost her father on Ill May day. Lead her on and make her good cheer, while I speak to this good dame.”
Margaret More, a slender, dark-eyed girl of thirteen, went forward with a peculiar gentle grace to the stranger, saying, “Welcome, sweet maid! I hope we shall make thee happy,” and seeing the mournful countenance, she not only took Aldonza’s hand, but kissed her cheek.
Sir Thomas had exchanged a word or two with Perronel, when there was a cry from the younger children, who had detected the wicker cage which Perronel was trying to keep in the background.
“A daw! a daw!” was the cry. “Is’t for us?”
“Oh, mistress,” faltered Aldonza, “’tis mine—there was one who tamed it for me, and I promised ever to keep it, but if the good knight and lady forbid it, we will send it back.”
“Nay now, John, Cicely,” was Margaret saying, “’tis her own bird! Wot ye not our father will let us take nought of them that come to him? Yea, Al-don-za—is not that thy name?—I am sure my father will have thee keep it.”
She led up Aldonza, making the request for her. Sir Thomas smiled.
“Keep thy bird? Nay, that thou shalt. Look at him, Meg, is he not in fit livery for a lawyer’s house? Mark his trim legs, sable doublet and hose, and grey hood—and see, he hath the very eye of a councillor seeking for suits, as he looketh at the chestnuts John holdeth to him. I warrant he hath a tongue likewise. Canst plead for thy dinner, bird?”
“I love Giles!” uttered the black beak, to the confusion and indignation of Perronel.
The perverse bird had heard Giles often dictate this avowal, but had entirely refused to repeat it, till, stimulated by the new surroundings, it had for the first time uttered it.