Nicholas appears; and as fuel is not so scarce as salt-beef, humbly suggests that her ladyship would be the better of a fire. Her ladyship assents. In due time her own yeoman of the buttery presents himself with two of the portions of meat and manchet which he has rescued from the eighteen that had been somewhat hastily dedicated to secular uses. A napery is laid over the rough oak table, and Sir James Gloys is duly informed that breakfast is ready. A leathern bottle, or black jack, of sour ale graces one end of the board; fortunate is it that something remains of a pitcher of red wine, which stands invitingly at the other.

Sir James Gloys, after a short matins, sits down to his frugal meal in a state of great abstraction. We are not exactly sure that his meditations are heavenward; for, in truth, he has been considerably discomposed by the events of the preceding evening, and by the prospects which he sees before him of little difference between the fasts of Lent and the feasts of Easter while he remains at Caister.

After an expressive silence, which in some degree reveals the struggle of pride which is passing in the breast of one, and of half-blighted hopes in that of the other, Sir James at length finds relief in the observation that the court is fast filling with the poor people who are come, according to annual custom, to claim the Maunday. Nicholas, the porter, knows by experience that the drawbridge should be lowered on this occasion; that there would be almsgiving in the hall and prayers in the

chapel. He has seen, too, the chaplains of his old master assist him in washing the feet of the poor in all humility; and so, being the chief in command of the household, he reverently enters to inquire whether his mistress, as the season was very cold, would not prefer that the water with which the ceremony would be performed should be temperately heated. The lady refers the question to the priest.

"With all reverence, worshipful lady," says the chaplain, "I humbly submit that this obsolete portion of the ceremonial may be dispensed with altogether."

"Obsolete, Sir James? How can you call it obsolete, when kings and queens are even at this hour preparing to imitate the humility of our Divine Master, with archbishops and bishops to assist them?" replies the lady.

"And for that especial reason I hold it right that we, of less degree, should in all humility not presume so closely to imitate the example of those whom the Lord hath set on high," responds the priest.

"We have little to give these poor people," sighs out the lady, "except the kindness and Christian love that are manifested in this act, which acknowledges all who bear God's image to be our fellows."

"The more necessity, I opine, for omitting that part of the day's business which has no substantial blessing in it. There will be scant thanks for

courtesies and humilities, when the hand is sent empty away," concludes Sir James.

The reverend chaplain is one of those persons with whom the world has been always filled, who hold that there is no charity but in almsgiving, and who, indeed, consider that the word charity has no other signification. Mistress Margaret knows that there is an authority which does not exactly support the opinions of the priest :-"If I depart all my goods into meats of poor men, and I have not charity, it profiteth to me nothing. Charity is patient, it is benign."* If the halls of Caister had been filled with abundance to feed a multitude, and if the lady and her chaplain had heaped up the baskets of every comer, and there ended, something would have been still wanting to have given happiness to those who were assembled in the great court on this Maunday Thursday. The Lady has not abundance, but she has a spirit of love in her bosom, sometimes smothered, but the more ready to come forth now at a time when she is not happy, and feels more humbly than is her wont; and so she says that if the poor go unfed from the household, they should not go unblessed. She proceeds to the court, and thus addresses them in a tone of real kindness.

"Friends and neighbours !-I am come amongst you unprovided with the usual means of discharging one portion of the Christian duty which has been common in this house on this day. Before Sir

*Wiclif's Translation of the New Testament.

John Fastolf died, at the reverend age of eighty, he distributed his Maunday to an increasing number with his increasing years. When my husband came into possession of this house, we each distributed Maunday according to our several ages, so that the poor were not worse off than before. When he died, you were reduced to the widow's mite, for my son left me here to be his housekeeper. I am no longer equal to that duty. I dwell not among you. According to the custom of ancient time, the Maunday must be as the years of the age of the lord of the household. I grieve that some of you will return to your homes disappointed. But let us not part as if there was wrong to be remembered. Let us meet together and offer up our prayers together, that God will bless and preserve all his children, and give them according to their several necessities. Sir James, we follow you to the chapel."

There is disappointment, but it is only for a moment, for when did the words of sincerity and kindness ever fail, if addressed to an assembled multitude not stirred by passion or rendered sullen by real or fancied contempt? Men, women, and children follow the lady and her chaplain to the sacred place; and there prayer and thanksgiving are offered; and there, with many a passing word of considerate inquiry, of comfort to those who are afflicted, of sympathy with those who bear their lot in cheerfulness, does the matron kneel at the feet of the old and the young, and discharge her

office patiently and gracefully, so as to draw down many a tear and many a blessing. Had her handmaidens performed the duty alone, the form of sanctimoniousness might have been present; but where would have been the spirit that unites the great and the humble in a reverent love before Him who knows no distinctions?

Thus, then, is this castle of Caister a very troublesome possession to the widow and her sons. It is the autumn of this same year 1469, and Margaret writes to Sir John, "Your brother and his fellowship stand in great jeopardy at Caister, and lack victuals, and Daubeney and Berney be dead, and divers others greatly hurt; and they fail gunpowder and arrows, and the place is sore broken with guns of the other party." And she calls upon Sir John to give them hasty help. But what can Sir John do? There is nothing to be accomplished without money and gunpowder; and the knight has his own necessities: "Mother, I beseech you send me some money, for by my troth I have but ten shillings; I wot not where to have more; and moreover I have been ten times in like case, or worse, within this ten weeks." What can the brave mother do in these straits? "Item, as for money I could get but ten pounds upon pledges, and that is spent upon your matters here, for paying of your men that were at Caister, and other things; and I wot not where to get none, neither for surety nor for pledges; and as for mine own