“Is 't o' the rats and how they would have belled the cat, father?”
He glanced aside at her with a smile:—
“Calote hath the Vision by heart,” he said.
“This gentle keepeth the parchment in a carven box, father.”
Langland fingered the pages of his manuscript, and presently took a quill from his pouch, opened his ink-horn, and crossed out a word.
“An my father would tell thee the tale of the rats, 't would pleasure thee,” said Calote to the squire.
“Nay, I have hindered enough,” protested Stephen,—“but wilt not thou tell the tale?”
Her father, looking up, smiled, but Calote shook her head, and clasped her hands, and unclasped them, shyly.
From the lane came a snapping sound, as Kitte broke twigs from a brush heap for the fire. Langland, pen in air, studied his parchment. The squire wandered to the window.
“'T is quiet now,” said he; “methinks I 'll set forth.”