The sun was setting, and a rosy light filtered through the trees which enshrouded Chiddingly Place.

The cawing of the rooks, as they winged their leisurely flight into the great rookery, alone broke the silence which sweetly brooded over the broad terrace on which two Sussex boys lay extended on the velvety turf. It was Midsummer Day—a day of unbroken sunshine and excessive heat.

In the evening a refreshing wind had revived the parched earth, and the gay flowers which spangled the wide-spreading lawn were lifting their drooped heads with renewed life.

The stone-mullioned windows of the Tudor house were thrown wide open, and the lads could see the maids within the dining-hall busily engaged in laying the supper for which they were more than ready.

"Come, Ralph," said William, as he bestirred himself, "we must go indoors and make ourselves presentable. Uncle John comes to-night, and he will soon be here."

"Oh, don't hurry," answered his brother, as he lay playing with two fine retrievers. "I love to watch the purple light on the downs as the sun sinks behind them; I could gladly lie here all night!"

"I agree with you," answered William; "but here comes Sue with orders, I expect, from the powers that be, that we are to go indoors at once."

Susan was the only sister of the two boys, and at her approach the dogs ran forward to greet her, and the boys rose quickly from their mossy couch.

The boys were twins, and as they stood side by side the likeness between them was striking.

They were in their eighteenth year, and fine specimens were they of the race of the "Sudseaxe." Tall and well built, fair haired and blue eyed, their strong limbs and fresh complexions betokened youths whose lives had been spent amid the woods and forests of Sussex, or on the rolling downs which stretched between Chiddingly and the sea.

Yet these boys were not unlettered, for both of them had been "foundation scholars" in the famous St. Paul's School, built and endowed by Dean Colet.

Nay, more, the youths had already seen something of Court life, strange to say.

It happened in this wise.

Their uncle Sir John Jefferay was a famous London lawyer, and he bid fair to occupy a great position on the judicial bench.

At this time he was the Treasurer of Gray's Inn, and on the occasion of a grand masque, given in the fine hall of the Inn by the Fellows, his two nephews had taken the parts of Castor and Pollux. The young King had honoured the performance with his royal presence, and so struck was he with the wonderful resemblance of the two Sussex brothers that he ordered them to Court and spent much time in their company.

In fact this resemblance was very remarkable. Those who knew the boys best could hardly tell them apart, and to avoid the continual mistakes which would otherwise have occurred, William always wore a grey cap and his brother a blue one.

The fondest affection subsisted between them; they were rarely seen apart; the one was the complement of the other, and their father, William Jefferay, would often declare that "they possessed two bodies, but only one soul!"

Just now they were released from their attendance at Court, but they would have to return thither shortly, for the sickly young King found a solace in their company.

There was one point upon which the boys were pre-eminently in agreement—they both adored their sister Sue, and her slightest wish was law to them.

And well did the fair Susan deserve this devotion. Three short years before, the boys had become motherless, and Susan, as the eldest member of the family, at once assumed the domestic control of Chiddingly Place. The comfort, the happiness, the welfare of the boys became her chief object in life.

She even shared in their sports—as far as a girl could,—and to her every secret of their hearts was laid bare; she was their "dea patrona," and for her both William and Ralph would have gladly laid down their lives at any time or place.

In person Susan was a feminine replica of the twins. She possessed their fair complexion and laughing blue eyes—her hair hung, like theirs, in thick masses over her shoulders.

Though slenderly built she was tall, and her figure displayed the nameless grace of a well-born English girl.

"Come, boys," cried Susan, as she ran forth to the terrace to greet them, "Uncle John will be here in a few minutes; his grooms arrived an hour ago with his baggage, and now they have set his room in order for him. Hurry up, or you will keep supper waiting!"

The boys answered her greeting merrily, and taking her hands they ran by her side towards the entrance porch, which they entered just as Uncle John appeared upon the scene.

Susan ran out to salute him as he dismounted from his grey sorrel—the boys darted upward to their rooms.

As Sir John entered the house, his brother William came forward to greet him with the warmest of welcomes.

It was a happy party which gathered in the dining-hall that evening.

The supper was served at so early an hour that the candles in the silver sconces were not yet required: the light of day still gleamed into the hall through the lozenge-paned oriel window, and sent coloured streams across the fair napery of the table as it passed through the stained glass of armorial bearings. Sir John sat at the head of the table, as he always did when he came to Chiddingly—though he had made a "deed of gift" of the Place in favour of his brother William when he took up his abode in London.

Presently the shadows of evening began to deepen, and the wax tapers were lit.

How pleasant the hall looked as the light shone on the wainscoted walls and illumined the features of past generations of Jefferays whose portraits adorned the beautiful chamber!

There was John Jefferay, who purchased Chiddingly Place in 1495, and beside him was the portrait of his wife Agnes, whose fine features bore a strong resemblance to Susan.

Their three sons were there—Richard, Thomas and William, Richard being the father of the famous Sir John who now sat at supper in the hall.

And when the young people of the family had withdrawn to the parlour, to amuse themselves with music and merry games, Sir John and his brother stepped out on to the lawn and entered into grave discourse as they walked to and fro.

The stars were shining brightly, a soft, gentle wind was stirring the tree-tops, and from the woods around came the sweet songs of many a nightingale.

"Ah, what a contrast is this scene of tranquil peace and happiness to the wild drama which is unfolding itself in London!" said Sir John.

"Here I may speak words to you, brother William, which might cost me my head if men overheard them in town. I have come to Chiddingly sick at heart and weary of the world, for the young King is dying, and all the beasts and birds of prey are gathering together at Court ready to fly at each others' throats as soon as the life is out of his poor body. Alas! alas! for England; I see no hope for her but in God. His Grace of Northumberland is straining every nerve to advance the cause of Lady Jane Grey and his son Lord Guildford Dudley, and I foresee that, ere long, the headsman will be busy, and the innocent will suffer with the guilty.

"Last night his Grace of Canterbury came to me in great trouble; he would fain know if he might legally sign certain State documents, and I told him that if he did so it would be at the peril of his head! Alas, poor Archbishop! he went away greatly perturbed.

"Yesterday I saw the Lord Mayor, and he vowed to me that no earthly power should constrain him to proclaim Lady Jane as Queen in the City—let me tell you his heart is wholly with the Lady Mary, and, by my troth, he is wise! For, as a lawyer, I declare that the rights to the throne of the Ladies Mary and Elizabeth are indefeasible; yet, if I said as much in London to-day, I might spend the night in the Tower, and to-morrow bid my last adieu to this world on the scaffold!

"Oh, the times are dark, deadly, perilous, and I am glad to escape from London and breathe the pure air of Chiddingly for a brief space."

"And if Mary become Queen, what of our Reformed Church, which is dear to us both?" inquired William anxiously.

"Ah! God knows—and God only," answered Sir John. "The Lady Mary is a bigot, and that we all know.

"Yet I will tell you a State secret: she has sent a messenger to the Lord Mayor, declaring that should she be declared Queen, no Englishman shall suffer for his faith."

"Will she keep her word?" asked William.

"Qui vivra verra," answered Sir John; "but I foresee that all depends upon the man whom she shall marry, for marry she will. If, by the mercy of God, she marry a good man, all may be well; if she marry a bad one, then God help us!"

William was deeply moved, and he sighed audibly.

"It bodes great trouble for England," he said in a troubled voice. "It may be that the fires of Smithfield will be rekindled as in the worst days of King Henry: yet I believe that the Reformation has taken a deep hold upon the country; the Church may bend before a fierce storm of persecution, but she will not be broken—she will rise again! I, for one, would rather die than bow my knees to Baal, as represented to me by the Papacy; and, thank God, there are thousands of men of like mind with me in Sussex!"

As William pronounced these words in tones that quivered with emotion, his brother caught him by the hand, and shaking it warmly, he cried—

"I know your stedfastness, brother, and I agree with you with all my heart and soul—yet I pray that God may spare us the trial of our faith! But hark! I hear an approaching horseman; I expect it is my man Roger, who is bringing us the latest news from town."

A few minutes later the groom appeared on the lawn, bearing letters in his hand.

Sir John took them from him; then, turning to his brother, he said—

"Let us go indoors; these letters are from my secretary, and we will read them at once; they must be of importance, or they would not have followed me so soon."

Entering the house the gentlemen made their way to the library—a comfortable room, well lighted with wax candles, and furnished with numerous settees and easy-chairs.

Sir John sat down and eagerly opened his despatches.

"It is Tremayne who writes," he said. "I will read his letter to you; it is as follows—

"'Honoured Sir,

"'The Council met to-day, and the deed of which you wot was signed and sealed—all the members consenting thereto. The Archbishop hesitated to the last, but His Grace of Northumberland would not be withstood—and so all signed. I hear that the King is sinking fast. From your chambers in Gray's Inn, June 21, 1553. J. W. Tremayne'"

The brothers looked at each other with pallid faces.

"So the 'letters patent' are issued," said Sir John, "and the irrevocable step is taken! 'Domine, dirige nos'! It is the beginning of strife of which no man can see the issue. Northumberland relies on aid from France; the Lady Mary places her hope on the Emperor. I bethink me of our blessed Lord's words: 'These things are the beginning of sorrows! Then shall be great tribulation such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time, no nor ever shall be.' And alas! for the poor young King, he hath none to comfort him; he is tasting of that unutterable loneliness that surrounds a throne! I think the end of his troubles is nigh at hand—and then the great strife will begin!

"But the hour is growing late, William," said Sir John, "and I hear Susan's pretty voice below; she is singing one of those songs I love so well: let us join the young people, I have seen little of them to-night."

A fortnight later, on July 6th, King Edward died at Greenwich in the sixteenth year of his age and the seventh of his reign.

Sir John had tarried at Chiddingly until the end came; then he hastened up to London, where pressing duties called him.

With him went the two boys—to begin their legal studies under the auspices of their uncle at Gray's Inn, for it was his wish that they should both enter the learned profession of the law.