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and Cobden shall find thee a bed. Cobden! Cobden, I say!”

“Yea, Sir John.”

“Make place for this good fellow in the servants’ hall and see that he hath all that he can eat and drink.”

“Yea, Sir John.”

“But stay a moment. Thy name, fellow.”

"Philip Marsham.”

“Philip Marsham?” The heavy brows knotted and Sir John spoke musingly. ‘‘Philip Marsham! I once knew a man of that name.”

Silence fell upon the hall. Grey Cobden stood a little behind his master, and when Phil looked past Sir John he saw standing in a door the tall, quiet girl he had seen with the old knight that day in the wood so long since. Doubtless it was she who had played upon the virginal. Her dark eyes and fine dignity wove a spell around the lad — a spell of the magic that has come down from the beginning of time — the magic that is always young.

Take such spells, such magic, as lightly as you please ; yet they have overturned kingdoms and not once, but many times, have they launched a thousand ships.

"Did you ever hear of Dr. Marsham of Little Grimsby?” Sir John asked, and he watched the lad very closely.

"Yea."

"And what have you heard of him?”

“He is my grandfather.”

“So!” The old knight stepped back and bent his brows. ‘‘Verily,” he said, ‘‘I believe the lad hath spoken truth. Go, Cobden. There is no place in the hall for this lad.”

The servant departed and the girl stepped nearer.