"That does not look as if the knight were very prosperous," said my father.
"And its look speaks truth," answered Cousin Joslyn. "This present knight's father lost much in the civil wars, and more by the exactions of the late King's unworthy ministers. Sir John went up to London on the present King's accession, and there mended his fortune by marrying a city heiress, who brought him gold enough to have rebuilt this poor old pile. But he was drawn into Court life, and he and his dame must needs raffle it in velvet and cloth of gold, with masks, entertainments and what not, till the lady's fortune was wasted in a year or two and there was nothing for it but to return hither, and live as best they might—and bad is the best, if all tales say true."
"Aye, 'twas then I was fool enough to lend him eight hundred pounds!" said my father. "I fear I shall never see principal or interest again."
As he spoke, we arrived at the doors of the manor house, which stood wide open, so that we could see within a large hall, at the upper end of which preparations seemed to be making for supper. Out rushed a tumultuous throng of dogs of all sorts, and blue-coated serving-men, in every stage of shabbiness. The dogs barked, the men hallooed, our horses, alarmed by the tumult, reared and pranced, and I began to think we should indeed be devoured, though not by moormen, when Sir John himself appeared at the door, and by threats, oaths, and a liberal use of his crutch-headed staff, restored something like order. He then advanced to my mother, and giving her his hand to alight, welcomed us with much courtesy to his poor house. He must have been a very handsome gentleman in his day, but he looks old and feeble, soured and peevish. My Lady stood in the hall and greeted us in her turn, as we were presented by her husband, with—
"Lor, Madam, I am glad to see you, though 'tis but little we can do to make you comfortable. We are but poor country folk, now—not like what you once knew me, Sir Stephen, when I had mine own home and purse, and was served in my father's house like a Queen. Alack, I little thought then I should live to see this day! But you are welcome to what we have!"
My mother made some polite speech, such as she is never at a loss for. I was glad I was not called on to say anything.
"And these are your son and daughter—lack a day! A fine young lady and gentleman—but I believe they are none of yours, Madam?"
"I call them mine," answered my mother, smiling.
"Aye, to be sure—but they can never be quite the same, methinks. We have no children now—we had a son once, but he is dead."
Her sharp voice and face softened a moment, and then grew sharper than ever, as she exclaimed, turning to a little thin maiden with unkempt, uncovered locks and a kirtle like a milkmaid's, of coarse stuff, and neither clean nor whole, who had crept into the hall while she was speaking: