Dusk was approaching on the following day, when a rap came on the door of the anchorhold, and a voice said—
“Leuesa, pray you, ask my cousin to come to the casement a moment.”
“Stephen!” cried Derette, hurrying to her little window when she heard his voice. “So you have come back!”
“Shall I go now, Lady, for the fresh fish?” asked Leuesa, very conveniently for Stephen, who wondered if she good-naturedly guessed that he had a private communication to make.
“Do,” said Derette, giving her three silver pennies.
As soon as Leuesa was out of hearing, Stephen said—“I am only here for a few hours, Derette, and nobody knows it save my Lord, you, and my brother. I have obtained my discharge, and return to London with the dawn.”
“Are you not meaning to come back, Stephen? Folks are saying that.”
“Folks are saying truth. I shall live in London henceforth. But remember, Derette, that is a secret.”
“I shall not utter it, Stephen. Truly, I wish you all happiness, but I cannot help being sorry.”
There were tears in Derette’s eyes. Stephen had ever been more brotherly to her than her own brothers. It was Stephen who had begged her off from many a punishment, had helped her over many a difficulty, had made her rush baskets and wooden boats, and had always had a sweetmeat in his pocket for her in childhood. She was grieved to think of losing him.