"I know Master Hall and his wife, at least to speak to," said he. "She seems, indeed, like a most generous woman, such as the wise man calls a crown to her husband."
"But did your mother then disinherit you?" I asked.
"So far as it was in her power. Sir Edward left me certain lands which were not entailed, and a sum of money, and I had a small inheritance from my own father, so I have more than enough for all my wants—except books," he added, smiling; then sadly again: "I cared not for the inheritance, but it was hard to want a mother's last blessing."
"It was, indeed. But what do you here?"
"The duke hath given me a place as master, to teach the young gentlemen their academe. His grace intimated to me that I might do as much or as little as I would, but I mean to earn his protection, which is of great value to me."
The entrance of Mistress Mandeville put an end to our talk for this time. The day was spent much as the last had been, save that we went abroad on the river with our mistress. She was fond of the water, and went out almost every day, and as I liked it also, while as Mistress Mandeville was terribly afraid of it, I came to be her usual companion in these expeditions.
Kind as were my master and mistress, and much as I learned to love them, it was a trying life, and one that I should never covet for a daughter of mine. It was a fatiguing, and yet an idle, life. Oh, how my fingers used to ache for something wherewith to busy themselves, during the hours when I stood by my mistress's chair, and how weary grew my ears of the endless tittle-tattle of compliment and repartee. Sometimes, indeed, we had talk which was worth hearing. The Duke entertained all the great scholars of the day, and I heard many discussions which made me forget all my weariness and disgust.
One day I had the great pleasure of seeing my old friend, Dr. Hooper, and my lady, with her usual kindness, hearing that we were acquainted, made an opportunity for us to talk together. He told me he had seen Master Davis's family the day before, and that they were all well.
"And you, my daughter, how fares it with you?" he asked, gently. "I do not mean in health, since your face speaks for itself, but how fares it with your soul? Do you keep your lamp trimmed and burning in the midst of all this splendor, and yourself as one who waiteth for the bridegroom?"
"Indeed, I try to," I answered, feeling the tears very near mine eyes. "But I do find it hard, many times, to collect my thoughts and keep them where they should be. My prayers seem forced, and as though they did not get out of the room."