"I LIKE PHILIP," SAID GREGORY.
GODFREY FAIRFAX WAS ABOUT TO BEGIN AGAIN, WHEN HORACE INTERRUPTED.
"EXCUSE ME," HE SAID. "BUT I'VE BEEN THINKING. DIDN'T YOU WRITE 'FOR THE GOOD CAUSE'?"
"YES," SHE SAID.
"WHY," SAID HORACE, "THAT'S MY FAVOURITE BOOK. YOU REMEMBER THAT, JACK? THE WARS OF THE ROSES AND THE YORKIST FAMILY? YOU MUST REMEMBER WHERE THE SPY—GILES FEATHERHEAD—IS CAUGHT IN THE BUTTERY, AND HOW THEY DUCK HIM?"
"OF COURSE I DO," SAID JACK. "IT'S PERFECTLY RIPPING."
GODFREY FAIRFAX WAS SO PLEASED TO HEAR THIS THAT HER VOICE FOR A MOMENT OR TWO WAS QUITE HUSKY. THEN SHE RESUMED.
In the evening Matthew Hale appeared bearing a basket of tools, and insisted upon testing all locks and bolts, and Barbara and he explored the house together, making all safe with the exception of a window in the library. This room was on the ground-floor, easily accessible, and, try as he would, there was one window which the blacksmith could not secure. The good fellow was for sleeping on the floor all night by way of guard, but Barbara would not hear of it, and, in the end, Bevis, the mastiff, the great dog that had followed Colonel Myddelton into camp in the late war, was chained outside the window. Satisfied with this arrangement, Matthew pulled his forelock and said good night, and Barbara prepared for bed.
Folks kept better hours in those days than we now do. First she peeped in at the sleeping children. Then she talked long and earnestly with the cook concerning the morrow's programme, and at nine o'clock she climbed to her room.
Barbara, however, could not sleep; so, after an hour or two had passed, she rose, lit a candle, threw on a wrap, and descended the broad staircase, intent upon a queer and enthralling Spanish book—the story of a mad knight and his comic, matter-of-fact attendant, which was a favourite of her father's.