"MOTHER, am I truly and verily bound 'prentice to Master Drayton?" asked one of the lads when he went home that night.
His mother was a widow, and lived a mile or two from Soper Lane, and moreover was so busily employed in lace-making all day that she heard very little of what went on around her unless her son Simon brought home news that he had heard during the day, or on his way home at night, so that his next question as to whether she had heard the name of Westland only made the widow shake her head as she counted the threads of her lace to make sure that she was not doing it wrong.
"Has Master Drayton taken another apprentice of that name?" asked his mother, not pausing in her work to look at her boy's face, or she would have seen a look of horror there as he answered quickly—
"It isn't quite so bad as that, mother."
"What do you mean, Sim?" she asked. "Dame Drayton is our Dame Lowe's own sister, and a godly woman, I have heard, as well as her husband—godly and charitable as the parson himself," added the widow, "or he would not have taken thee to learn the trade and business of a hatter without price, merely because I was a widow known to the parson and his wife."
"Oh yes, they are godly and kind; but did I ever tell you, mother, that one of the rules of the workshop is that we shall not speak more than is needful?"
"And a very wise rule too, if proper work is to be done," said his mother quickly.
"That may be; but you have heard of the Quakers, mother?"
"Oh yes, a set of infidel people who speak against the king and the church, and rebel against all law and order. A most pestilent and unruly people, I have heard; but surely—"
Sim folded his arms and leaned upon the table, the guttering candle lighting up his face so that his mother could not fail to see the fright and horror depicted there as he said—