The monk smiled as he looked at Spring, who had flung himself down
to take advantage of the halt, hanging out his tongue, and panting
spasmodically. "A noble beast," he said, "of the Windsor breed,
is't not?" Then laying his hand on the graceful head, "Poor old
hound, thou art o'er travelled. He is aged for such a journey, if
you came from the Forest since morn. Twelve years at the least, I
should say, by his muzzle."

"Your reverence is right," said Stephen, "he is twelve years old.
He is two years younger than I am, and my father gave him to me when
he was a little whelp."

"So thou must needs take him to seek thy fortune with thee," said
the good-natured Augustinian, not knowing how truly he spoke. "Come
in, my lads, here's a drink for him. What said you was your uncle's
name?" and as Ambrose repeated it, "Birkenholt! Living on a corrody
at Hyde! Ay! ay! My lads, I have a call to Winchester to-morrow,
you'd best tarry the night here at Silkstede Grange, and fare
forward with me."

The tired boys were heartily glad to accept the invitation, more
especially as Spring, happy as he was with the trough of water
before him, seemed almost too tired to stand over it, and after the
first, tried to lap, lying down. Silkstede was not a regular
convent, only a grange or farm-house, presided over by one of the
monks, with three or four lay brethren under him, and a little
colony of hinds, in the surrounding cottages, to cultivate the farm,
and tend a few cattle and numerous sheep, the special care of the
Augustinians.