While Copernicus Droop was acquiring fame and fortune as a photographer, Rebecca and Phoebe were leading a quiet life in the city.

Phoebe was perfectly happy. For her this was the natural continuation of a visit which her father, Isaac Burton, had very unwillingly permitted her to pay to her dead mother's sister, Dame Goldsmith. She was very fond of both her aunt and uncle, and they petted and indulged her in every possible way.

Her chief source of happiness lay in the fact that the Goldsmiths favored the suit of Sir Guy Fenton, with whom she found herself deeply in love from the moment when he had so opportunely arrived to rescue the sisters from the rude horse-play of the Southwark mob.

Poor Rebecca, on the other hand, found herself in a most unpleasant predicament. She had shut herself up in her room on the first day of her arrival on discovering that her new hosts were ale drinkers, and she had insisted upon perpetuating this imprisonment when she had discovered that she would only be accepted on the footing of a servant.

Phoebe, who remembered Rebecca both as her nineteenth-century sister and as her sixteenth-century nurse and tiring-woman, thought this determination the best compromise under the circumstances, and explained to her aunt that Rebecca was subject to recurring fits of delusion, and that it was necessary at such times to humor her in all things.

On the very day of the visit of Francis Bacon to the Panchronicon, the two sisters were sitting together in their bed-room. Rebecca was at her knitting by the window and Phoebe was rereading a letter for the twentieth time, smiling now and then as she read.

"'Pears to amuse ye some," said Rebecca, dryly, looking into her sister's rosy face. "How'd it come? I ain't seen the postman sence we've ben here. Seems to me they ain't up to Keene here in London. We hed a postman twice a day at Cousin Jane's house."

"No, 'twas the flesher's lad brought it," said Phoebe.

Rebecca grunted crossly.

"I wish the land sake ye'd say 'butcher' when ye mean butcher, Phoebe," she said.

"Well, the butcher's boy, then, Miss Particular!" said Phoebe, saucily.

Rebecca's face brightened.

"My! It does sound good to hear ye talk good Yankee talk, Phoebe," she said. "Ye hevn't dropped yer play-actin' lingo fer days and days."

"Oh, 'tis over hard to remember, sis!" said Phoebe, carelessly. "But tell me, would it be unmaidenly, think you, were I to grant Sir Guy a private meeting—without the house?"

"Which means would I think ye was wrong to spark with that high-falutin man out o' doors, eh?"

"Yes—say it so an thou wilt," said Phoebe, shyly.

"Why, ef you're goin' to keep comp'ny with him 'tall, I sh'd think ye'd go off with him by yerself. Thet's the way sensible folks do—at least, I b'lieve so," she added, blushing.

"Aunt Martha hath given me free permission to see Sir Guy when I will," Phoebe continued. "But she hath been full circumspect, and ever keepeth within ear-shot."

"Humph!" snapped Rebecca. "Y'ain't got any Aunt Martha's fur's I know, but ef ye mean that fat, beer-drinkin' woman downstairs, why, 'tain't any of her concern, an' I'd tell her so, too."

Phoebe twirled her letter between her fingers and gazed pensively smiling out of the window. There was a long pause, which was finally broken by Rebecca.

"What's the letter 'bout, anyway?" she said. "Is it from the guy?"

"You mean Sir Guy," said Phoebe, in injured tones.

"Oh, well, sir or ma'am! Did he write it?"

"Why, truth to tell," said Phoebe, slipping the note into her bosom, "'Tis but one of the letters I read to thee from yon carved box, Rebecca."

"My sakes—that!" cried her sister. "How'd the butcher's boy find it? You don't s'pose he stole it out o' the Panchronicle, do ye?"

"Lord warrant us, sis, no! 'Twas writ this very day. What o'clock is it?"

She ran to the window and looked down the street toward the clock on the Royal Exchange.

"Three i' the afternoon," she muttered. "The time is short. Shall I? Shall I not?"

"Talkin' o' letters," said Rebecca, suddenly, "I wish'd you take one down to the Post-Office fer me, Phoebe." She rose and went to a drawer in the dressing-table. "Here's one 't I wrote to Cousin Jane in Keene. I thought she might be worried about where we'd got to, an' so I've written an' told her we're in London."

"The Post-Office—" Phoebe began, laughingly. Then she checked herself. Why undeceive her sister? Here was the excuse she had been seeking.

"Yes; an' I told her more'n that," Rebecca continued. "I told her that jest's soon as the Panchronicle hed got rested and got its breath, we'd set off quick fer home—you an' me. Thet's so, ain't it, Phoebe?" she concluded, with plaintive anxiety in her voice.

"I'll take the letter right along," said Phoebe, with sudden determination.

But Rebecca would not at once relax her hold on the envelope.

"That's so, ain't it, dearie?" she insisted. "Won't we make fer home as soon's we can?"

"Sis," said Phoebe, gravely, "an I be not deeply in error, thou art right. Now give me the letter."

Rebecca relinquished the paper with a sigh of relief, then looked up in surprise at Phoebe, who was laughing aloud.

"Why, here's a five-cent stamp, as I live!" she cried. "Where did it come from?"

"I hed it in my satchel," said Rebecca. "Ain't that the right postage?"

"Yes—yes," said Phoebe, still laughing. "And now for the Post-Office!"

She donned her coif and high-crowned hat with silver braid, and leaned over Rebecca, who had seated herself, to give her a good-by kiss.

"Great sakes!" exclaimed Rebecca, as she received the unaccustomed greeting. "You do look fer all the world like one o' the Salem witches in Peter Parley's history, Phoebe."

With a light foot and a lighter heart for all its beating, Phoebe ran down the street unperceived from the house.

"Bishopsgate!" she sang under her breath. "The missive named Bishopsgate. He'll meet me within the grove outside the city wall."

Her feet seemed to know the way, which was not over long, and she arrived without mishap at the gate.

Here she was amazed to see two elderly men, evidently merchants, for they were dressed much like her uncle the goldsmith, approach two gayly dressed gentlemen and, stopping them on the street, proceed to measure their swords and the width of their extravagant ruffs with two yardsticks.

The four were so preoccupied with this ceremony that she slipped past them without attracting the disagreeable attention she might otherwise have received.

As she passed, the beruffled gentlemen were laughing, and she heard one of them say:

"God buy you, friends, our ruffs and bilbos have had careful measurement, I warrant you."

"Right careful, in sooth," said one of those with the yardsticks. "They come within a hair's breadth of her Majesty's prohibition."

Phoebe had scant time for wonder at this, for she saw in a grove not a hundred yards beyond the gate the trappings of a horse, and near by what seemed a human figure, motionless, under a tree.

Making a circuit before entering the grove, she came up behind the waiting figure, far enough within the grove to be quite invisible from the highway.

She hesitated for some time ere she felt certain that it was indeed Sir Guy who stood before her. He was dressed in the extreme of fashion, and she fancied that she could smell the perfumes he wore, as they were borne on the soft breeze blowing toward her.

His hair fell in curls on either side from beneath a splendid murrey French hat, the crown of which was wound about with a gold cable, the brim being heavy with gold twist and spangles. His flat soft ruff, composed of many layers of lace, hung over a thick blue satin doublet, slashed with rose-colored taffeta and embroidered with pearls, the front of which was brought to a point hanging over the front of his hose in what was known as a peascod shape. The tight French hose was also of blue satin, vertically slashed with rose. His riding-boots were of soft brown Spanish leather and his stockings of pearl-gray silk. A pearl-gray mantle lined with rose-colored taffeta was fastened at the neck, under the ruff, and fell in elegant folds over his left arm, half concealing the hand resting upon the richly jewelled hilt of a sword whose scabbard was of black velvet.

"God ild us!" Phoebe exclaimed in low tones. "What foppery have we here!"

Then, slipping behind a tree, she clapped her hands.

Guy turned his head and gazed about in wonder, for no one was visible. Phoebe puckered her lips and whistled softly twice. Then, as her lover darted forward in redoubled amazement, she stepped into view, and smiled demurely upon him with hands folded before her.

The young knight leaped forward, and, dropping on one knee, carried her hand rapturously to his lips.

"Now sink the orbed sun!" he exclaimed. "For behold a fairer cometh, whose love-darting eyes do slay the night, rendering bright day eternate!"

Smiling roguishly down into his face, Phoebe shook her head and replied:

"You are full of pretty phrases. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them out of rings?"

For an instant the young man was disconcerted. Then rising, he said:

"Nay, from the rings regardant of thine eyes I learned my speech. What are golden rings to these?"

"Why, how much better is thy speech when it ringeth true," said Phoebe. "Thy speech of greeting was conned with much pains from the cold book of prior calculation, and so I answered you from a poet's play. I would you loved me!"

"Loved thee, oh, divine enchantress—too cruel-lovely captress of my dole-breathing heart!"

"Tut—tut—tut!" she broke in, stamping her foot. "Thou dost it badly, Sir Guy. A truce to Euphuistic word-coining and phrase-shifting! Wilt show thy love—in all sadness, say!"

"In any way—or sad or gay!"

"Then prithee, good knight, stand on thy head by yonder tree."

The cavalier stepped back and gazed into his lady's face as though he thought her mad.

"Stand—on—my—head!" he exclaimed, slowly.

Phoebe laughed merrily and clapped her hands.

"Good my persuasion!" she rippled. "See how thou art shaken into thyself, man. What! No phrase of lackadaisical rapture! Why, I looked to see thee invert thine incorporate satin in an airy rhapsody—upheld and kept unruffled by some fantastical twist of thine imagination. Oh, Fancy—Fancy! Couldst not e'en sustain thy knight cap-À-pie!" and she laughed the harder as she saw her lover's face grow longer and longer.

"Why, mistress," he began, soberly, "these quips and jests ill become a lover's tryst, methinks——"

"As ill as paint and scent and ear-rings—as foppish attire and fantastical phrases do become an honest lover," said Phoebe, indignantly. "Dost think that Mary Burton prizes these weary labyrinthine sentences—all hay and wool, like the monstrous swelling of trunk hose? Far better can I read in Master Lilly's books. Thinkest thou I came hither to smell civet? Nay—I love better the honest odor of cabbages in mine aunt's kitchen! And all this finery—this lace—this satin and this pearl embroidery——"

"In God His name!" the knight broke in, stamping his foot. "Dost take me for a little half-weaned knave, that I'll learn how to dress me of a woman? An you like not my speech, mistress——"

Phoebe cut him short, putting her hand on his mouth.

Then she leaned her shoulder against a tree, and looking up saucily into his face:

"Now, don't get mad!" she said.

"Mad—mad!" said Sir Guy, with a puzzled look. "An this be madness, mistress, then is her Majesty's whole court a madhouse."

"Well, young man," Phoebe replied, with her prim New England manner, "if you want to marry me, you'll have to come and live in a country where they don't have queens, and you'll work in your shirt-sleeves like an honest man. You might just's well understand that first as last."

The knight moved back a step, with an injured expression on his face.

"Nay, then," he said, "an thou mock me with uncouth phrases, Mary, I'd best be going."

"Perhaps you'd better, Guy."

With a reproachful glance, but holding his head proudly, the young man mounted his horse.

"He hath a noble air on horseback," Phoebe said to herself, and she smiled.

The young man saw the smile and took courage.

He urged his horse forward to her side.

"Mary!" he exclaimed, tenderly.

"Fare thee well!" she replied, coolly, and turned her back.

He bit his lip, clinched his hand, and without another word, struck fiercely with his spurs. With a snort of pain, the horse bounded forward, and Phoebe found herself alone in the grove.

She gazed wistfully after the horseman and clasped her hands in silence for a few moments. Then, at thought of the letter she knew he was soon to write—the letter she had often seen in the carved box—she smiled again and, patting her skirts, stepped forth merrily from the edge of the grove.

"After all, 'twill teach the silly lad better manners!" she said.

Scarcely had she reached the highway again when she heard a man's voice calling in hearty tones.

"Well met, Mistress Mary! I looked well to find you near—for I take it 'twas Sir Guy passed me a minute gone, spurring as 'twere a shame to see."

She looked up and saw a stout, middle-aged countryman on horseback, holding a folded paper in his hand.

"Oh, 'tis thou, Gregory!" she said, coolly. "Mend thy manners, man, and keep thy place."

The man grinned.

"For my place, Mistress Mary," he said, "I doubt you know not where your place be."

She looked up with a frown of angry surprise.

"Up here behind me on young Bess," he grinned. "See, here's your father's letter, mistress."

She took the paper with one hand while with the other she patted the soft nose of the mare, who was bending her head around to find her mistress.

"Good Bess—good old mare!" she said, gently, gazing pensively at the letter.

How well she knew every wrinkle in that paper, every curve in the clumsy superscription. Full well she knew its contents, too; for had she not read this very note to Copernicus Droop at the North Pole? However, partly that he might not be set to asking questions, partly in curiosity, she unfolded the paper.

"Dear Poll"—it began—"I'm starting behind the grays for London on my way to be knighted by her Majesty. I send this ahead by Gregory on Bess, she being fast enow for my purpose, which is to get thee out of the clutches of that ungodly aunt of thine. I know her tricks, and I learn how she hath suffered that damned milk-and-water popinjay to come courting my Poll. So see you follow Gregory, mistress, and without wait or parley come with him to the Peacock Inn, where I lie to-night.

"The grays are in fine fettle, and thy black mare grows too fat for want of exercise. Thy mother-in-law commands thy instant return with Gregory, having much business forward with preparing gowns and fal lals against our presentation to her Majesty.—Thy father, Isaac Burton, of Burton Hall.

"Thy mother thinks thou wilt make better speed if I make thee to know that the players thou wottest of are to stop at the Peacock Inn and will be giving some sport there."

"The players!" she exclaimed, eagerly. "Be these the Lord Chamberlain's men?" she asked. "Is there not among them one Will Shakespeare, Gregory? What play give they to-night?"

"All one to me, mistress," said Gregory, slowly dismounting. "There be players at the Peacock, for the kitchen wench told me of them as I stopped there for a pint; but be they the Lord Chamberlain's or the Queen's, I cannot tell."

"Do they play at the Shoreditch Theatre or at the inn, good Gregory?"

"I' faith I know not, mistress," he replied, bracing his brawny right hand, palm up, at his knee.

Mechanically she put one foot into his palm and sprang lightly upon the pillion behind the groom's saddle.

As they turned and started at a jog trot northward, she remembered her sister and her new-found aunt.

"Hold—hold, Gregory!" she cried. "What of Rebecca? What of my aunt—my gowns?"

"I am to send an ostler from the Peacock for your nurse and clothing, mistress," said Gregory. "My orders was not to wait for aught, but bring you back instant quickly wheresoever I found you." After a pause he went on with a grin: "I doubt I came late, hows'ever. Sir Guy hath had his say, I'm thinkin'!" and he chuckled audibly.

"Now you mind your own business, Gregory!" said Phoebe, sharply.

His face fell, and during the rest of their ride he maintained a rigid silence.

The next morning found Phoebe sitting in her room in the Peacock Inn, silently meditating in an effort to establish order in the chaos of her mind. Her hands lay passively in her lap, and between her fingers was an open sheet of paper whose crisp folds showed it to be a letter.

Daily contact with the people, customs, dress, and tongue of Elizabethan England was fast giving to her memories of the nineteenth century the dim seeming of a dream. As she came successively into contact with each new-old acquaintance, he took his place in her heart and mind full grown—completely equipped with all the associations, loves, and antipathies of long familiarity.

Gregory had brought her to the inn the night before, and here she had received the boisterous welcome of old Isaac Burton and the cooler greeting of his dame, her step-mother. They took their places in her heart, and she was not surprised to find it by no means a high one. The old lady was overbearing and far from loving toward Mistress Mary, as Phoebe began to call herself. As for Isaac Burton, he seemed quite subject to his wife's will, and Phoebe found herself greatly estranged from him.

That first afternoon, however, had transported her into a paradise the joys of which even Dame Burton could not spoil.

Sitting in one of the exterior galleries overlooking the courtyard of the inn, Phoebe had witnessed a play given on a rough staging erected in the open air.

The play was "The Merchant of Venice," and who can tell the thrills that tingled through Phoebe's frame as, with dry lips and a beating heart, she gazed down upon Shylock. Behind that great false beard was the face of England's mightiest poet. That wig concealed the noble forehead so revered by high and low in the home she had left behind.

She was Phoebe Wise, and only Phoebe, that afternoon, enjoying to the full the privilege which chance had thrown in her way. And now, the morning after, she went over it all again in memory. She rehearsed mentally every gesture and intonation of the poet-actor, upon whom alone she had riveted her attention throughout the play, following him in thought, even when he was not on the stage.

Sitting there in her room, she smiled as she remembered with what a start of surprise she had recognized one among the groundlings in front of the stage after the performance. It was Sir Guy, very plainly dressed and gazing fixedly upon her. Doubtless he had been there during the entire play, waiting in vain for one sign of recognition. But Shylock had held her spellbound, and even for her lover she had been blind.

She felt a little touch of pity and compunction as she remembered these things, and suddenly she lifted to her lips the letter she was holding.

"Poor boy!" she murmured. Then, shaking her head with a smile: "I wonder how his letter found my room!" she said.

She rose, and, going to the window where the light was stronger, flattened out the missive and read it again:

"My dear, dear Mary—dear to me ever, e'en in thy displeasure—have I fallen, then, so low in thy sight! May I not be forgiven, sweet girl, or shall I ever stand as I have this day, gazing upward in vain for the dear glance my fault hath forfeited?

"In sober truth, dear heart, I hate myself for what I was. What a sad mummery of lisping nothings was my speech—and what a vanity was my attire! Thou wast right, Mary, but oh! with what a ruthless hand didst thou tear the veil from mine eyes! I have seen my fault and will amend it, but oh! tell me it was thy love and not thine anger that hath prompted thee. And yet—why didst thou avert thine eyes from me this even? Sweet—speak but a word—write but a line—give some assurance, dear, of pardon to him who is forever thine in the bonds of love."

She folded the letter slowly and slipped it into the bosom of her dress with a smile on her lips and a far-away look in her eyes. She had known this letter almost by heart before she received it. Had it not been one of her New England collection? Foreknowledge of it had emboldened her to rebuke her lover when she met him by the Bishopsgate—and yet—it had been a surprise and a sweet novelty to her when she had found it on her dressing-table the night before.

At length she turned slowly from the window and said softly:

"Guy's a good fellow, and I'm a lucky girl!"

There was a quick thumping of heavy feet on the landing, and a moment later a young country girl entered. It was Betty, one of the serving girls whom Dame Burton had brought with her to London.

The lass dropped a clumsy courtesy, and said:

"Mistress bade me tell ye, Miss Mary, she would fain have ye wait on her at once. She's in the inn parlor." Then, after a pause: "Sure she hath matter of moment for ye, I warrant, or she'd not look so solemn satisfied."

Phoebe was strongly tempted to decline this peremptory invitation, but curiosity threw its weight into the balance with complaisance, and with a dignified lift of the chin she turned to the door.

"Show the way, Betty," she said.

Through several long corridors full of perplexing turns and varied by many a little flight of steps, the two young women made their way to the principal parlor of the inn, where they found Mistress Burton standing expectantly before a slow log fire.

Phoebe's worthy step-mother was a dame of middle age, ruddy, black-haired, and stout. Her loud voice and sudden movements betrayed a great fund of a certain coarse energy, and, as her step-daughter now entered the parlor, she was fanning her flushed face with an open letter. Her expression was one of triumph only half-concealed by ill-assumed commiseration.

"Aha, lass!" she cried, as she caught sight of Phoebe, "art here, then? Here are news in sooth—news for—" She broke off and turned sharply upon Betty, who stood by the door with mouth and ears wide open.

"Leave the room, Betty!" she exclaimed. "Am I to have every lazy jade in London prying and eavesdropping? Trot—look alive!"

She strode toward the reluctant maid and, with a good-natured push, hastened her exit. Then, closing the door, she turned again toward Phoebe, who had seated herself by the fire.

"Well, Polly," she resumed, "art still bent on thy foppish lover, lass? Not mended since yesternight—what?"

A cool slow inclination of Phoebe's head was the sole response.

"Out and alas!" the dame continued, tossing her head with mingled pique and triumph. "'Tis a sad day for thee and thine, then! This Sir Guy of thine is as good as dead, girl! Thy popinjay is a traitor, and his crimes have found him out!"

"A traitor!"

Phoebe stood erect with one hand on her heart.

Dame Burton repressed a smile and continued with a slow shake of the head:

"Ay, girl; a traitor to her blessed Majesty the Queen. His brother hath been discovered in traitorous correspondence with the rebel O'Neill, and is on his way to the Tower. Sir Guy's arrest hath been ordered, and the two brothers will lose their heads together."

Very pale, Phoebe stood with hands tight clasped before her.

"Where have you learned this, mother?" she said.

"Where but here!" the dame replied, shaking the open sheet she held in her hand. "Thy Cousin Percy, secretary to my good Lord Burleigh, he hath despatched me this writing here, which good Master Portman did read to me but now."

"Let me see it."

As Phoebe read the confirmation of her step-mother's ill news, she tried to persuade herself that it was but the fabrication of a jealous rival, for this Percy was also an aspirant to her hand. But it proved too circumstantial to admit of this construction, and her first fears were confirmed.

"Ye see," said Dame Burton, as she received the note again, "the provost guard is on the lad's track, and with a warrant. I told thee thy wilful ways would lead but to sorrow, Poll!"

Phoebe heard only the first sentence of this speech. Her mind was possessed by one idea. She must warn her lover. Mechanically she turned away, forgetful of her companion, and passing through the door with ever quicker steps, left her step-mother gazing after her in speechless indignation.

Phoebe's movements were of necessity aimless at first. Ignorant of Sir Guy's present abiding-place, knowing of no one who could reach him, she wandered blindly forward, up one hall and down another without a distinct immediate plan and mentally paralyzed with dread.

The sick pain of fear—the longing to reach her lover's side—these were the first disturbers of her peace since her return into this strange yet familiar life of the past. Now for the first time she was learning how vital was the hold of a sincere and deep love. The thought of harm to him—the fear of losing him—these swept her being clear of all small coquetries and maiden wiles, leaving room only for the strong, true, sensitive love of an anxious woman. Over and over again she whispered as she walked:

"Oh, Guy—Guy! Where shall I find you? What shall I do!"

She had wandered long through the mazes of the quaint old caravansary ere she found an exit. At length she turned a sharp corner and found herself at the top of a short flight of steps leading to a door which opened upon the main outer court. At that moment a new thought leaped into her mind and she stopped abruptly, a rush of warm color mantling on her cheeks.

Then, with a sigh of content, she sank down upon the top step of the flight she had reached and gently shook her head, smiling.

"Too much Mary Burton, Miss Phoebe!" she murmured.

She had recollected her precious box of letters. Of these there was one which made it entirely clear that Mary Burton and her lover were destined to escape this peril; for it was written from him to her after their flight from England. All her fears fell away, and she was left free to taste the sweetness of the new revelation without the bitterness in which that revelation had had its source.

Very dear to Phoebe in after life was the memory of the few moments which followed. With her mind free from every apprehension, she leaned her shoulder to the wall and turned her inward sight in charmed contemplation upon the new treasure her heart had found.

How small, how trifling appeared what she had until then called her love! Her new-found depth and height of tender devotion even frightened her a little, and she forced a little laugh to avert the tears.

Through the open door her eyes registered in memory the casual movements without, while her consciousness was occupied only with her soul's experience. But soon this period of blissful inaction was sharply terminated. Her still watching eyes brought her a message so incongruous with her immediate surroundings as to shake her out of her waking dream. She became suddenly conscious of a nineteenth-century intruder amid her almost medieval surroundings.

All attention now, she sat quickly upright and looked out again. Yes—there could be no mistake—Copernicus Droop had passed the door and was approaching the principal entrance of the inn on the other side of the courtyard.

Phoebe ran quickly to the door and, protecting her eyes with one hand from the flood of brilliant sunlight, she called eagerly after the retreating figure.

"Mr. Droop—Mr. Droop!"

The figure turned just as Phoebe became conscious of a small crowd of street loafers who had thronged curiously about the courtyard entrance, staring at the new-comer's outlandish garb. She saw the grinning faces turn toward her at sound of her voice, and she shrank back into the hallway to evade their gaze.

The man to whom she had called re-crossed the courtyard with eager steps. There was something strange in his gait and carriage, but the strong sunlight behind him made his image indistinct, and besides, Phoebe was accustomed to eccentricities on the part of this somewhat disreputable acquaintance.

Her astonishment was therefore complete when, on removing his hat as he entered the hallway, this man in New England attire proved to be a complete stranger.

Evidently the gentleman had suffered much from the rudeness of his unwelcome followers, for his face was flushed and his manner constrained and nervous. Bowing slightly, he stood erect just within the door.

"Did you do me the honor of a summons, mistress?" said he.

The look of amazement on Phoebe's face made him bite his lips with increase of annoyance, for he saw in her emotion only renewed evidence of the ridicule to which he had subjected himself.

"I—I crave pardon!" Phoebe stammered. "I fear I took you for another, sir."

"For one Copernicus Droop, and I mistake not!"

"Do you know him?" she faltered in amazement.

"I have met him—to my sorrow, mistress. 'Tis the first time and the last, I vow, that Francis Bacon hath dealt with mountebanks!"

"Francis Bacon!" cried Phoebe, delight and curiosity now added to puzzled amazement. "Is it possible that I see before me Sir Francis Bacon—or rather Lord Verulam, I believe." She dropped a courtesy, to which he returned a grave bow.

"Nay, good mistress," he replied. "Neither knight nor lord am I, but only plain Francis Bacon, barrister, and Secretary of the Star Chamber."

"Oh!" Phoebe exclaimed, "not yet, I see."

Then, as a look of grave inquiry settled over Bacon's features, she continued eagerly: "Enough of your additions, good Master Bacon. 'Twere better I offered my congratulations, sir, than prated of these lesser matters."

"Congratulations! Good lady, you speak in riddles!"

Smiling, she shook her head at him, looking meaningly into his eyes.

"Oh, think not all are ignorant of what you have so ably hidden, Master Bacon," she said. "Can it be that the author of that wondrous play I saw here given but yesternight can be content to hide his name behind that of a too greatly favored player?"

"Play, mistress!" Bacon exclaimed. "Why, here be more soothsaying manners from a fairer speaker—but still as dark as the uncouth ravings of that fellow—that—that Droop."

"Nay—nay!" Phoebe insisted. "You need fear no tattling, sir. I will keep your secret—though in very truth, were I in your worship's place, 'twould go hard but the whole world should know my glory!"

"Secret—glory!" Bacon exclaimed. "In all conscience, mistress, I beg you will make more clear the matter in question. Of what play speak you? Wherein doth it concern Francis Bacon?"

"To speak plainly, then, sir, I saw your play of the vengeful Jew and good Master Antonio. What! Have I struck home!"

She leaned against the wall with her hands behind her and looked up at him triumphantly. To her confusion, no answering gleam illumined the young man's darkling eyes.

"Struck home!" he exclaimed, shaking his head querulously. "Perhaps—but where? Do you perchance make a mock of me, Mistress—Mistress——?"

She replied to the inquiry in his manner and tone with disappointment in her voice:

"Mistress Mary Burton, sir, at your service."

Bacon started back a step and a new and eager light leaped into his eyes.

"The daughter of Isaac Burton?" he cried, "soon to be Sir Isaac?"

"The same, sir. Do you know my father?"

"Ay, indeed. 'Twas to seek him I came hither."

Then, starting forward, Bacon poured forth in eager accents a full account of his meeting with Droop in the deserted grove—of how they two had conspired to evade the bailiffs, and of his reasons for borrowing Droop's clothing.

"Conceive, then, my plight, dear lady," he concluded, "when, on reaching London, I found that the few coins which remained to me had been left in the clothes which I gave to this Droop, and I have come hither to implore the temporary aid of your good father."

"But he hath gone into London, Master Bacon," said Phoebe. "It is most like he will not return ere to-morrow even."

Droop's hat dropped from Bacon's relaxed grasp and he seemed to wilt in his speechless despair.

Phoebe's sympathy was awakened at once, but her anxiety to know more of the all-important question of authorship was perhaps the keenest of her emotions.

"Why," she exclaimed, "'tis a little matter that needs not my father, methinks. If ten pounds will serve you, I should deem it an honor to provide them."

Revived by hope, he drew himself up briskly as he replied:

"Why, 'twill do marvellous well, Mistress Mary—marvellous well—nor shall repayment be delayed, upon my honor!"

"Nay, call it a fee," she replied, "and give me, I beg of you, a legal opinion in return."

Bacon stooped to pick up the hat, from which he brushed the dust with his hand as he replied, with dubious slowness, looking down:

"Why, in sooth, mistress, I am used to gain a greater honorarium. As a barrister of repute, mine opinions in writing——"

"Ah, then, I fear my means are too small!" Phoebe broke in, with a smile. "'Tis a pity, too, for the matter is simple, I verily believe."

Bacon saw that he must retract or lose all, and he went on with some haste:

"Perchance 'tis not an opinion in writing that is required," he said.

"Nay—nay; your spoken word will suffice, Master Bacon."

"In that case, then——"

She drew ten gold pieces from her purse and dropped them into his extended palm. Then, seating herself upon a bench against the wall hard by, she said:

"The case is this: If a certain merchant borrow a large sum from a Jew in expectation of the speedy arrival of a certain argosy of great treasure, and if the merchant give his bond for the sum, the penalty of the bond being one pound of flesh from the body of the merchant, and if then the argosies founder and the bond be forfeit, may the Jew recover the pound of flesh and cut it from the body of the merchant?"

As she concluded, Phoebe leaned forward and watched her companion's face earnestly, hoping that he would betray his hidden interest in this Shakespearian problem by some look or sign.

The face into which she gazed was grave and judicial and the reply was a ready one.

"Assuredly not! Such a bond were contrary to public policy and void ab initio. The case is not one for hesitancy; 'tis clear and certain. No court in Christendom would for a moment lend audience to the Jew. Why, to uphold the bond were to license murder. True, the victim hath to this consented; but 'tis doctrine full well proven and determined, that no man can give valid consent to his own murder. Were this otherwise, suicide were clearly lawful."

"Oh!" Phoebe exclaimed, as this new view of the subject was presented to her. "Then the Duke of Venice——"

She broke off and hurried into new questioning.

"Another opinion hath been given me," she said. "'Twas urged that the Jew could have his pound of flesh, for so said the bond, but that he might shed no blood in the cutting, blood not being mentioned in the bond, and that his goods were forfeit did he cut more or less than a pound, by so much as the weight of a hair. Think you this be law?"

Still could she see no shadow in Bacon's face betraying consciousness that there was more in her words than met the ear.

"No—no!" he replied, somewhat contemptuously. "If that A make promise of a chose tangible to B and the promise fall due, B may have not only that which was promised, but all such matters and things accessory as must, by the very nature of the agreed transfer, be attached to the thing promised. As, if I sell a calf, I may not object to his removal because, forsooth, some portion of earth from my land clingeth to his hoofs. So blood is included in the word 'flesh' where 'twere impossible to deliver the flesh without some blood. As for that quibble of nor more nor less, why, 'tis the debtor's place to deliver his promise. If he himself cut off too much, he injures himself, if too little he hath not made good his covenant."

Complete conviction seemed to spring upon Phoebe, as though it had been something visible to startle her. It shook off her old English self for a moment, and she leaped to her feet, exclaiming:

"Well, there now! That settles that! I guess if anybody wrote Shakespeare, it wasn't Bacon!"

The astonishment—almost alarm—in her companion's face filled her with amusement, and her happy laugh rang through the echoing halls.

"Many, many gracious thanks, good Master Bacon!" she exclaimed. "Right well have you earned your honorarium. And now, ere you depart, may I make bold to urge one last request?"

With a bow the young man expressed his acquiescence.

"If I mistake not, you will return forthwith to Master Droop, to the end that you may regain your proper garb, will you not?"

"That is my intention."

"Then I pray you, good Master Bacon, deliver this message to Master Droop from one Phoebe Wise, an acquaintance of his whom I know well. Tell him he must have all in readiness for flight and must not leave his abode until she come. May I rely on your faithful repetition of this to him?"

"Assuredly. I shall forget no word of the message wherewith I am so honored."

"Tell him that it is a matter of life and death, sir—of life and death!"

She held out her hand. Bacon pressed his lips to the dainty fingers and then, jamming the hard Derby hat as far down over his long locks as possible, he stepped forth once more into the courtyard.