“What, Dickon?” said Margaret, smiling.
“Oh, Dickon!” returned Constance in a changed tone. “But Tom is not Dickon. Neither is he an angel, I wis, for I heard him gainsay once his preceptor.”
Tom looked very unhappy at this raking up of bygone misdeeds.
“Methinks your Ladyship is in ill humour this morrow,” said Margaret. “Be not so hard on the lad, for he loveth you.”
“When I love him, I will do him to wit,” said Constance cuttingly. “Come, Meg.”
Dame Margaret obeyed the command, but she kept hold of the hand of her little brother. When they were gone, Alvena laid down her work and laughed.
“Thy Queen of Faery is passing gracious, Maude.”
“She scarce seemed to matter the lad,” was Maude’s reply.
“Yet she hath sworn to do his bidding all the days of her life,” said Alvena.
“Why,” said Maude, looking up in surprise, “would you say the Lady Custance is troth-plight unto this imp?” (Little boy.)