CHAPTER III.



Rose Woodley ran up and down indefatigably, preparing everything for
the accommodation of the guests, smoothing down Deborah's petulance,
and keeping her mother from over-exertion or anxiety. Much
contrivance was indeed required, for besides the colonel and his son,
two soldiers had to be lodged, and four horses, which, to the
consternation of old Margery, seemed likely to devour the cow's
winter store of hay, while the troopers grumbled at the desolate,
half-ruined, empty stables, and at the want of corn.

Rose had to look to everything; to provide blankets from the bed of
the two little girls, send Eleanor to sleep with her mother, and take
Lucy to her own room; despatch them on messages to the nearest
cottage to borrow some eggs, and to gather vegetables in the garden,
whilst she herself made the pigeon pie with the standing crust, much
wishing that the soldiers were out of the way. It was a pretty thing
to see her in her white apron, with her neat dexterous fingers, and
nimble quiet step, doing everything in so short a time, and so well,
without the least bustle.

She was at length in the hall, laying the white home-spun, home-
bleached cloth, and setting the trenchers (all the Mowbray plate had
long ago gone in the King's service), wondering anxiously, meantime,
what could have become of Walter, with many secret and painful
misgivings, though she had been striving to persuade her mother that
he was only absent on some freak of his own.