All this time I had been listening with strained ears for footsteps on
the stairs. Now I heard them, and waited anxiously. The door opened, and
Jane came in, upright and important. She curtsyed to my mother, announced,
"Mistress Margaret Waynflete," and my goddess came into the room.

Straight up to my mother she walked,--a poor word to describe her sweet
and stately motion, _et vera incessu patuit dea_, as the master has
it,--curtsied low and nobly to her and said, "Mistress Wheatman, I am a
stranger in distress, and should have been in danger but for your son, who
has served me and saved me as only a brave and courteous gentleman could."

I had ever loved my mother dearly, but I loved her proudly now, for the
greatest dame in the land could not have done better than this sweet,
simple mother of mine. Without surprise or hesitation, she took Mistress
Waynflete's hands in her own, and said, "Dear lady, anyone in distress is
welcome here, and Oliver has done just as I would have him do. And this is
my daughter, Kate, who will share our anxiety to help you."

And then I was proud of our Kate, Kate with the red hair and the
milk-white face, the saucy eye and the shrewd tongue, Kate with the
tradesman's head and the heart of gold. She shook madam warmly by the
hand, and led her to my great arm-chair in the ingle-nook as to a throne
that was hers of right.

Thus was Mistress Waynflete made welcome to the Hanyards.

Mother and Kate took their accustomed seats on the cosy settle beside the
hearth. I sat on a three-legged stool in front of the fire, and Jane
flitted about as quietly as a bat, laying the table for our evening meal.