"I shall be nine years old come Michaelmas—and you?"
"We shall be twelve on Midsummer day. Can you read, cousin?"
"Oh yes!" I answered, not without a little feeling of vain-glory, I dare say. "I can read and write, and I have begun Latin."
"We can read and write a little, but not well;" and then followed a comparison of accomplishments.
And soon I found I had nothing whereof to boast, since my cousins could play on the lute and the virginals, embroider in all sorts of stitches, and even knit—an art which I had only heard of at that time, as practiced in that same convent of Gray Nuns whose dissolution had sent me to London. We grew excellent friends over all these inquiries and answers, and when we were called down to dinner we descended the stairs, not hand in hand, but with our arms round each other's waists.
We went down to the ground floor this time, and I was led into a great dining-room where was a table splendidly set out—or so it seemed to my unaccustomed eyes—with snowy napery, silver and fine colored ware, such as I had never seen. They were, in fact, china dishes, then only beginning to be used by the wealthy merchants of London and the Low Countries. Sambo and one or two 'prentice lads were just placing the dinner on the table, and my uncle was standing by the window, looking out upon the garden, now all ablaze with flowers, many of which were new to me.
He turned round as I entered, and showed me one of the handsomest and kindest faces I ever beheld in my life. He was a man in middle life, tall and somewhat stout, though not unbecomingly so, with curling brown hair, a little touched with gray at the temples, large gray eyes with very long lashes, and a chestnut beard trimmed in the fashion of the day. He was richly but soberly dressed, and I noticed even then the whiteness and fineness of his linen. Sea-coal was not used in London then as much as now, and it was easier to keep clean.
"So this is my little niece, is it?" said he, kindly raising me and bending down to kiss my forehead as I kneeled to ask his blessing. "You are welcome, my dear child. May the God of thy fathers bless thee."
Even then there was something in my uncle's tone which struck me—a peculiar solemnity and earnestness, quite different from the business-like, rapid fashion in which Father Barnaby and our own Sir John used to go through the same form. It seemed as if he were really speaking to some one. He caused me to sit at his right hand, and helped me bountifully from the dish of roast fowls which stood before him. The dinner was elegantly served, and Sambo showed such skill in waiting on his master, and such alacrity in helping me to sweetmeats that I found my dislike to him sensibly diminishing.
Of course we children did not speak at the table, and indeed I was too busy making my remarks on all I saw to care even for eating. I admired the china dishes, so hard and light and so beautifully painted; the clear glass and finely wrought silver; and I once or twice really forgot to eat in gazing through the great glass window at the flower garden.